


Wine, Paint or Blood

by bubble_bones



Series: Wine, Paint or Blood (John Wick) [1]
Category: John Wick (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, I AM WEAK FOR JOHN WICK OK, Prequel, WBoP AU, john wick being a simp for his future wife
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-01
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-12 08:42:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 59,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29132751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bubble_bones/pseuds/bubble_bones
Summary: Helen Moore fears very little but being mugged on the subway, or missing next month's rent. Point being, her life is mundane, if a little stressful on the financial side of things.Enter John Wick - a business associate of her newest client. He's tall, dark, and mysterious - embarrassingly, her exact type. And whilst he can try to keep his distance, every little thing she learns about him only makes her want him more. Except John and his associates have darker secrets than she could've imagined, and by learning them, she's put herself in far more danger than a plain girl from Brooklyn can handle.
Relationships: Helen Wick/John Wick
Series: Wine, Paint or Blood (John Wick) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2144289
Comments: 11
Kudos: 32





	1. A pen printed with daisies

**Author's Note:**

> In short: a John Wick prequel about the potential way in which he met Helen and fell in looooooove. Because the movies robbed us of that. In canon I'm fairly certain Helen is a photographer, but she is an artist in this fic!
> 
> Thanks to the lovely [Trin303](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trin303/pseuds/Trin303/) / [overheardatthecontinental](https://overheardatthecontinental.tumblr.com//) for your incredible fics and inspiring me to start one of my own, and offering me much-appreciated help and encouragement! And to the lovely people over in the [Cyberpunks discord server](https://discord.gg/vn3twwhaHP) for thirsting alongside me for John/Keanu in general.

The subway rattled to the next stop, and Helen double-checked the strap of her bag was firmly over her shoulder. Could never be too safe in these metro tunnels. She stood from her seat with barely enough time to breathe before someone standing immediately gobbled it up. Patiently, she waited by the open doors while the dozen men and women in pressed, tailored suits stepped off, and then smiled and stepped back to let the elderly gentleman who had waited for too long off. Then, she'd barely managed to squeeze onto the platform herself thanks to the sea of oncoming people desperate to get on before the train left for the next stop. 

If she wasn't so used to living like this day to day, she'd think it was insane. 

Unfortunately, she was. 

She checked her wristwatch and sighed. Underneath its cracked face, she managed to read off the time; if she didn't hurry, she'd be late for her appointment. And she could _not_ afford to lose this client. The money was too good, far too good to miss out on. The work would be hard, and the circumstances were… Bizarre, but she'd have to be crazy to refuse it. A commission of that scale? It would do wonders for her portfolio and wallet both. 

So she hauled herself up and out of the subway tunnels, up onto the busy streets of Manhattan. Helen had never met her client in person to this day - never even spoken to the man in question, not on the phone. Spoke with his secretary, a sort of short-tempered woman whose accent was just vaguely Russian. She had said Helen had come on recommendation from an associate, and she had _no_ idea what associate it could've been, but she was just relieved to have finally been given work. And well-paying, too. That was difficult for an artist in New York, especially classically-trained ones like herself. All opportunities lately were hipster minimalism, barely classifiable as art, but she could manage it. But this - this job was something _else_ . Right up her alley. A classical mural, the design of which she was meeting the client to decide upon today. He was a busy man, the secretary had said, so she absolutely could _not_ miss this meeting. There would be no rescheduling - they'd find someone else. 

Helen followed the directions on her poor battered phone screen, and when finally it stopped giving her new instructions, she came to a stop outside the imposing block in front of her. She checked the business card in her other hand; sure enough, Mr. Viggo Tarasov's name - at the very least his surname - was etched into the golden plaque hung by the door. Fuck, this guy was no joke. Pocketing her phone and the card both, she climbed the steep set of stairs and rang the bell. While she waited for a response, she found herself growing increasingly nervous - not just unnecessary anxiety about maybe having the wrong address, but that creeping fear of her artistic self-worth. What if her skill wasn't nearly enough to what this client expected? He'd seen her past works, hadn't he? He knew what to expect, saw her standard the same she did. Hopefully? 

" _Do you have an appointment_?" asked a voice across the intercom - the same voice belonging to the secretary she'd been talking to over the phone. Phew, okay, that was one irrational fear taken care of. 

She cleared her throat. "Uh, yes. I'm Helen Moore, I'm here to meet with Mr. Tarasov?" 

_Dammit, Helen, try to sound a little more uncertain, why don't you?_ She straightened up her back, squared her shoulders - her heels did favours for her little height but she had to keep her posture. She was a professional, even if this was the biggest, most important commission she'd ever been offered in her career. Even if it was terrifying and frankly _very_ out of her comfort zone. 

" _Please, come in. The receptionist will show you up_." 

Taking a deep breath, she reached for the handle of the glass door, and pushed. Once she'd sat down with the client, shook his hand, and began discussing her ideas, she would be okay. When she was in her element, there was no such thing as anxiety. She just needed to get there first. 

The receptionist, a short, angry-faced man, middle-aged maybe, wore a suit that looked like he’d been wearing it every day for the last ten years. He offered her a gruff nod when she approached his desk, and stood to lead her to the elevator without a word. Uncomfortable didn’t even begin to cover the awful ride up to Tarasov’s office, in that bleak silence. She nervously straightened her blazer - she’d dressed as office-appropriate as her wardrobe would allow for this meeting - hoped the high winds on the walk here hadn’t too terribly messed up her hair. 

When the elevator dinged at the correct floor, she almost let out a heavy sigh of relief. The receptionist stepped out and led her to another desk nearby to a pair of heavy oak doors which were closed shut. Without a word he returned to the elevator, leaving her in the hands of another - this time, a woman with a stern expression; sour-looking, like she’d sucked on a lemon.

“Miss Moore I presume?” she asked, and Helen recognised that voice: the secretary she’d spoken on the phone with.

She nodded. “Yes, that’s me.”

The secretary got to her feet, and headed for the oak doors. Knocked on them with two little taps of her knuckles. 

“You are a few minutes late, so I should hope you are well-prepared to showcase your work with Mr. Tarasov. He has a very busy schedule - he will not run over for your sake.” 

_Don’t roll your eyes, Helen_. “Of course.” she said instead, nodding understandably. 

The pair of doors opened, not of their own accord like it initially looked like. On either side was a tall man each side, looking so utterly out of place in a fancy office space such as this - tracksuit bottoms, mismatched jackets, sneakers. Burly and intimidating though, so Helen just gave a little nod of thanks rather than attempting to speak up as they passed through. There was no way this place was a commercial office of any kind - it seemed almost like a home. A very fancy and ornate home, but lacking any personal touches. Cold, quiet. The secretary led her through a pretty waiting room with big windows overlooking the busy city below, filled with fanciful looking furniture that was probably more expensive than her entire apartment. Then down a corridor, past a half-open door in which a group of men were sitting around a table, talking in hushed voices. Again, lots of bad vibes, but she pushed on. At the end of the corridor, she stopped at another door by which another imposing man stood, but this one looked as if he fit in his surroundings; grey suit, fitted over a muscular chest. 

Every instinct she’d ever had was screaming at her to get out, because this felt all sorts of weird. But this job was too important to run away from just because she was feeling nervous. So she glued her heels to the pretty parquet floor, and waited for the man to discuss something with the secretary. She didn’t know what sort of business Mr. Tarasov was involved in, but goodness, this was a lot of hoops to jump through just to meet with him.

He opened the door for them, and the secretary led her inside. 

“Mr. Tarasov, sir, Miss Helen Moore.” introduced the lady. Helen couldn’t help herself; she felt her eyes roam over the luxurious office, walls furnished with tall, oak bookshelves she could only dream of spending long hours poring over. Before the large ornate desk were a cluster of plush looking couches, in a dark albeit tasteful green velvet. And behind the desk sat Viggo Tarasov himself, the mysterious man she’d been waiting a week to meet. A more elderly man than she'd expected; greying, receding hair, a short beard of the same colour. Wrinkles covered his brow, mostly, and he had a tired look in his eyes. Still, he looked up attentively, almost looking like a perfect piece of decor for this space in that tailored suit in a deep shade of maroon. 

“Ah, Miss Moore! A pleasure.” he greeted heartily, getting up from his leather chair. His voice carried an accent not unlike his secretary - Russian as well. He rounded the desk, offered her a hand. Helen crossed the room and met him by the couches, placing hers in his - instead of shaking it like perhaps she’d expected, he lifted her hand to his face, and graciously kissed the backs of her knuckles before releasing her. 

Helen plucked the corners of her lips up into a business smile. “A pleasure to finally meet you, Mr. Tarasov.” she said politely, and gratefully took a seat when he gestured to the couch behind her. 

“Please, call me Viggo.” he gestured to his secretary, “A drink? Tea, coffee perhaps?”

“A coffee, please. Just a bit of milk and two sugars, thank you.” she tried a kindly smile at the secretary but she couldn’t have been closer to rolling her eyes than she was. Turning to Viggo, she said, “Then in that case, please just call me Helen.”

“Wonderful.” 

The secretary left the office, and Helen felt her nerves starting to play up again. Tarasov seemed polite, gentlemanly even, but something still rubbed her the wrong way. She hoped it was just his impending judgement upon her suggestions for this piece, as opposed to _anything_ else. 

“I understand it is a mural piece you’d like to commission me for.” she began, after clearing her throat. 

“Yes, yes. I will be moving out of this office shortly to allow for some redecoration, my tastes have evolved somewhat since it was last addressed.” he gestures to the couches they sit upon, “These, for example. A touch gaudy I think. I would prefer to return to more elegance, more class. I do love the inspired decor of Renaissance eras, there is something so… Delicate, but powerful about it. Do you not agree? Trained in classical arts, are you not?”

So he _had_ done his research about her. She nods. 

“Yes, a Bachelors in Fine Arts. Unfortunately I’ve been quite limited to more modern techniques lately, which is why I believe I’m the most fitting artist for this job. I’ve been craving to do a refined piece like this for a long time.”

He chuckled, “You need not sell yourself to me, Helen. I have seen your work, and I believe I will be quite satisfied with what you will produce for me.”

She hoped the way her shoulders sunk in relief wasn’t too obvious. She’d half-expected this meeting to turn into a job interview, with her desperately pleading her case. Yes, the money for this job would be excellent, and having such a commission under her belt would do miracles for future prospects. But she also _wanted_ to do this job. She hated suggesting a job would be _fun_ because that felt almost childish, but she was looking forward to beginning work. 

Clearing her throat, Helen reached for her satchel. She clicked it open and retrieved the folder from inside, laying it down on the coffee table before them. 

"I took the liberty of brainstorming some ideas," she explained, opening it up. The secretary came back with their drinks and set them neatly around the folder before disappearing again as quickly as she came. "Admittedly this is the first time I'll have done anything on this scale, but I've brought some photographs of studies and works I completed in the past on this same vein. Plus some pre-existing pieces I discussed with your secretary." 

Viggo uncrossed his legs to sit forwards on the couch, paying attention. Something felt strange about the way he regarded her, though - as if he was listening, but had an ear out at all times, like he was waiting for something. As if she didn't have his full attention, anyhow. 

"May I have a look?" he asked, setting down his own, little porcelain teacup. She nodded. 

"Of course." 

_Those_ were the nerves she was more used to, only now creeping in. Anxieties about the strangeness of the situation had taken the forefront, and now that Viggo had her folder in hand, flicking through research and her own work both, her stomach was doing flips; one with every page he passed through. He lingered on some more than others, and she wondered if she could guess which page he was studying. She'd spent so long making sure that portfolio was perfect, that she probably knew it better than the route home. And if she was guessing right, then that meant he spent particular time looking at _her_ work rather than that of those she researched. 

"Are you a religious woman, Helen?" Viggo asked out of the blue, startling her a little. He'd been silent for a few minutes. 

Why did that question feel more like a test than a simple curious one? She wet her lips. "Not particularly," she admitted, "I have an understanding of various religions but I don't follow any strictly. Why do you ask?" 

"Your work reminds me of artwork often seen in Christian holy buildings. And you seem to draw upon common themes - angels and demons have appeared more often than not." 

"Ah," she breathed, letting out a short laugh. She felt like maybe she'd dodged a bullet, "That is more just my fascination with their duality. The often strict religious teachings of right and wrong, good and evil - it intrigues me. Representing that so visually in contrasting figures is something I enjoy." 

"Fascinating." he said, and shockingly, he sounded genuine. He gave her a little smile before returning to the folder. 

"Thank you." 

"I should like one of each of my own I think," Viggo decided after a moment, and nodded at the wall behind her, "Over there." 

She turned to survey the work area he was assigning her; it was taller than it was wide, but nothing she couldn't reach without the help of a ladder. And it wasn't nearly as long a stretch of wall as she'd feared, only maybe three metres long. That took a weight off her chest. She had undertaken a task like this in her own little apartment wall - given up thanks to a lack of time and motivation - but it wasn't impossible. Perhaps this job would give her the inspiration to take her own up again. 

Abruptly, the doorknob to the office rattled, and then it flew open. Instinctively, Helen flinched, and her heart started racing at a million miles per hour. _Fuck_ she knew this whole thing was bad news. She'd been here not twenty minutes and was fearing for her damn life. 

"Viggo-" 

She looked up to the door, trying very hard to steel her expression into her best poker face - try not to show the fear she'd been suddenly struck by. And then she found herself immediately grateful for said mask when she looked upon their intruder. _Oh, he was cute_ . Feeling a little silly, she tried to scrub the thought from her head. And try to ignore how her heart went from racing to skipping a beat when she looked at his face. _Focus_ , _Helen_ , she tried to remind herself, _Be professional_. The tall man now standing in the open doorway, caught by surprise, might've been cute, but he also just interrupted her important meeting with Viggo. The important meeting she'd waited all week for. 

He was tall - God, she'd already acknowledged that, but she felt like thanks to her own height it was something she picked up on more easily. Like Viggo he wore a suit; a nice, fitting, tailored suit, a three-piece in all black that did wonders for his waist, his broad shoulders. He had an almost-sad looking face, with dark eyes that looked like they hadn't squinted for a smile in years. His jaw and top lip were lined with a thin beard of dark stubble, with hair matching falling just past his ears. 

Tall, dark and handsome. God, _God_ , why did her type have to be such a stupid fucking stereotype?

And why was the _literal definition_ of it stood in that doorway? 

"Sorry." he said quickly, in a low, quiet tone. The low angle at which he held his head beneath her hair made her think that he didn't often raise his voice much louder. "I didn't realise you had a guest." 

Viggo shook his head. "That's quite alright, John. We were just finishing, anyhow." 

_We were?_ Helen finally managed to tear her eyes off John to show a little of her surprise to her client. He was ending this meeting rather quickly when he hadn't even answered any of the questions she'd readied. He seemed in a haste now, like John's arrival was the very thing he'd been waiting for. 

"I-I'm sorry, Mr. Tarasov, sir, but I'm afraid I need more details to prepare the piece." she said, finding it increasingly difficult to get the words out of her mouth. Was it the tightness of her chest, her heart still pounding from the fright? Or was it the way Viggo shot her a look completely different from all the others? The seemingly polite, dignified man had very briefly been replaced by one of impatience - namely, directed at her. 

But then he smiled again. It didn't reach his eyes. 

"Of course, of course. I apologise. Please, ask away." he set her folder back down on the coffee table, seemingly tired of looking through he was only halfway through. He glanced in John's direction, "Do close the door, John, and stop standing around. You look like a cat waiting to be startled - make yourself comfortable. We will not be long." 

Helen would've rather John left. The handsome stranger closing the door and making his way to Viggo's liquor cabinet - with a very subtle limp, she noted - was doing no favours for her focus. So she cleared her throat and tried to ignore him as he pretended to peruse the bookshelves. She _knew_ he was going to listen in and suddenly she would've rather preferred to be alone with intimidating Viggo Tarasov again. 

She reached for her notepad inside her bag and clicked the end of her pen - she almost wished she'd bought new stationary so that she didn't look childish with the daisy prints. 

"Do any of the pieces I've shown you stand out?" she asked, "Any designs, inspirations? Do you have anything very specific in mind?" 

"As I said earlier, I quite like the juxtaposition you yourself enjoy. Of an angelic figure and its opposite." Viggo said smoothly, took a sip from his cup. She nodded, and scribbled a quick note. 

"Any artists you yourself have a preference towards?" 

"Not in particular." 

_Helpful_. She didn't write anything down. "Please, if you have any ideas at all in mind, Mr. Tarasov, share them with me. I'd hate for you to be dissatisfied with something I'd produce." 

"I am sure I will be quite content with whatever you make, Miss Moore." 

She withheld her groan. He was being very unhelpful - still distracted, mind elsewhere. Probably a few minutes in the future, imagining the conversation with John he'd been waiting for. Well, she had _time_. She'd come up with designs and email them to his secretary in the simple hope he would consider this a little deeper. 

"Is that all?" he asked, when he noticed her pen hadn't moved at all in the last few minutes. 

"I, uh- yes, I suppose it is." 

As Helen packed away her things, she couldn't shake off the feeling she was being watched. Subtly she peeked up from under her hair - Viggo was occupied staring distantly out of the enormous windows behind his desk. John, however, was peering over his shoulder. Not at the man he was here to see, but at her. She met his gaze and for just a split second, he held it. Curious and silent. But then he dropped it, and turned back to the shelves with his glass up to his lips. 

Fuck, she already hated this place. And she hadn't even started work yet. 

"It was a pleasure, Miss Moore." Viggo got to his feet, and shook her hand. "I look forward to seeing your progress." 

She didn't. But she smiled, and tried to put some vigour into her shake once she'd risen, slung her bag over her shoulder once more. 

"And you, Mr. Tarasov."

"My secretary will forward you more details. I look forward to hearing from you." 

As if on timed cue, his secretary opened the door to his office. Helen tried one last business-like smile before taking the hint and heading for the door, stepping back out into the thin little hallway. The man guarding the office now looked disgruntled, a little annoyed - perhaps because he'd let John barge past him. How _had_ John forced his way past a man both wider and taller, more intimidating? Certainly, John hadn't seemed a pushover, and she'd seem spied evidence of muscle under the tight sleeves and torso of his fitted blazer, but not many men would willingly confront such an imposing guy like that. 

She shook the thought out of her head and followed the secretary from the hall, back out into the main room. There were a dozen more paths to take from here, other doors and corridors, a set of stairs, but the secretary just led her back the way they'd came. She was glad, really - she'd signed up to work here and yet she couldn't wait to leave. _She_ felt more like the cat Viggo had described John as; hackles raised, constantly expecting _something_ but she wasn't sure what. This place, it just felt… Eerie. Uncomfortable, like she didn't belong here. 

"I will be your main source of contact again," said the secretary when they'd returned to her desk, "Make certain to update me on anything you believe Mr. Tarasov should be privy to." 

"Of course." Helen almost sighed - this wasn't the first time she'd been commissioned by a client, she knew how important their say was. Yet this was the first time she'd ever been commissioned by a man like Tarasov, and honestly, it was intimidating. Knowing there was a middle man, even if it might slow things down, would help build a distance, a wall. Maybe she would never have to interact with Mr. Nice Guy Viggo again. 

The elevator ride somehow felt even longer, and this time she was on her own. No awkward silence hanging over her and that grumpy receptionist like a wet blanket, but it seemed like in her want to get out, the world wanted to conspire against her. When finally she reached the ground floor, she hastily headed for the exit. Offered a polite smile to the receptionist even if she was running out of politeness to give, and heard the buzz and a click as he opened the door for her exit. She pulled it open and stepped out into the biting air of the street, descended the stairs. She half-contemplated just hopping the next cab she saw. Would that be too paranoid? 

_Well_ , she thought as she began her journey back down to the nearest metro, _I've never had an interview go like_ **_that_ ** _before_. 

▂▃▅▇█▒▒█▇▅▃▂

The second the office door closed, Viggo let out a sigh like he'd been holding his breath. John watched him out of the corner of his eye - he sank into the couch, undid the buttons of his blazer and reached into his pocket for a smoke. John _almost_ smiled; it was always amusing watching Viggo pretend to be a man he wasn't. 

"Who was that?" he couldn't help but ask. He made his way to the window. Viggo hated the way he behaved - _always hovering, John, just sit down_ . But _he_ hated sitting down. He didn't give in to comfort or luxury anywhere but his home and the Continental. Even here, where his current employer conducted his business, and all of his _colleagues_ shrunk away at the sight of him. 

"An artist." Viggo dropped all pretense of the soft voice he'd been using on Miss Moore. "She will be decorating this space when I move out of this office for a time. Why do you ask, John?" 

He could've come up with a million different reasons why. Because he'd seen how startled she was when he'd walked in, like she had been ready to jump up and run the whole time she'd sat in Viggo's office. Because of the way, despite his intrusion, she seemed to relax a little when he bowed his head - and no one _ever_ relaxed around him, so he found it more refreshing than he might've previously thought.

Instead, he settled on practicality. 

"Is she a civilian?" he asked, and got a little chortle from Viggo. 

"Of course, John. There are very few artists in our world and even fewer who would work for anything short of billions."

Ah, there it was. The money. Of course he would take such a risk to save just a precious smidge of his enormous fortune. 

The worst part was? A billion probably _was_ only a smidge, too. 

Not that he could really talk. The money he'd made in his career would've been enough to set him up for the rest of his foreseeable life, could retire with ease. Except there was no such thing as retirement in this industry. No one who stepped in got out; and he'd done far more than step in during his time here. It felt more like a slippery slope. He'd tripped and now there was no chance of climbing back up. 

"Do you not think it's dangerous?" John asked, rounded Viggo's desk to linger by the other window instead. From this angle, he could see his face. 

Viggo rolled his eyes. " _Dangerous_ ? Since when has such a thing ever been a concern of yours?" he paused, lifted his head to stare John directly in the eyes - and as if to bait him, he added, " _Baba Yaga._ "

He didn't bite, he never did. He hoped Viggo would learn that eventually. 

"Not for me - for you. You plan to continue to use this space even while the office is being renovated. What happens when she sees something she shouldn't?" 

When, not if. It was only a matter of time, because Viggo's men were not particularly bright. They were not subtle or sneaky; low-paid and low on the food chain. They didn't have the skills or the know-how to clean up after themselves, so that meant in truth, Miss Moore would only be endangering herself by taking this job. And while John didn't particularly care, it was unfair that she should be taking such a risk. As a man who regularly stole lives, it seemed ironic. But those lives belonged in his world, in the one Miss Moore didn't even know existed - they knew the risks, they always expected a knife in their backs or at the very least, looked over their shoulder. If they didn't, they didn't have what it took to survive anyhow. 

But Miss Moore, whilst she certainly seemed flighty, didn't have those same instincts because she hadn't had to. By taking this job, she was accepting a risk she didn't understand - and fairly, couldn't understand. In the face of his money, Viggo didn't care. 

"You act as if you have never disposed of a witness, John." Viggo said dryly, and got to his feet to go to his liquor cabinet. He knew better than to ask John to fetch him anything. 

"Not if I didn't need to. And not if they were innocent, not if they didn't understand the circumstances." 

"Relax." he sighed, and John was forced to wait whilst he poured his drink. Then, when the bottle was back in its home, Viggo returned to his desk. John circled the room again, positioned himself near the door. "Besides, John," he lowered himself to his chair with a sigh, "Miss Moore is not wealthy. And everyone's silence comes with a price - she need not die so long as she continues to be as intelligent as she seems." 

John finished off his drink and set the glass down on the coffee table. Someone had left a pen - and it certainly wasn't Viggo's. He didn't carry stationary that was anything but a sleek black. This one had little daisies printed on a pastel blue background. Without a word, he pocketed it. 

He could only really hope then, that Miss Moore's financial situation was more pressing than her ethics. For her sake, he hoped she would be able to simply take the bribe and move on with her life after this. She was on that slope now, on that precipice - if she so much as wobbled, she'd fall, and an untrained woman in the Underworld was just asking for an early grave. 

"Enough about such matters, anyhow," Viggo dismissed with a wave of his hand, "You came to me in quite a rush, John. Do you have something to report?" 

John sighed, and reached into his pocket. Then, placed the phone screen up on Viggo's desk - he eagerly swiped through the photographs of associates now dead as casually as if he was perusing a magazine. 

"Excellent work, John. I will have your pay transferred."

"Anything else?" he asked, returning his phone to his inside pocket.

"Not for the moment. Enjoy your evening." 

John didn't bother with any pleasantries in response. He left the office and ignored the glare Viggo's man gave him outside the door. He was seconds away from stepping onto the elevator when a little nagging feeling drew him back. The secretary's desk was empty for the moment. He rounded it, took a glance at her monitor - obliviously, and perhaps stupidly, she'd left it unlocked. Emails, a dozen unread and even more viewed, were on the screen. Without disturbing anything, he quickly scanned the screen for any reference of Moore. 

Helen. Her name was Helen. 

It would have to be enough. Even if he never saw her again at Viggo's office, perhaps he could use her name to find her - convince her this job was not worth it. She didn't deserve to gamble it all just for a pay cheque. 

Then again, how often did a well-paying job come along for an artist in New York? Maybe Viggo was right, maybe she really would stay silent if he paid her enough. Still, he wasn't sure if she'd appreciate being so in the dark about the reality of her situation. How much could he tell her? If he did, would that just hasten her fall? 

John sighed as he stepped into the elevator. It was none of his business; stay detached, stay away. That was his usual mantra. If Helen Moore got herself killed for some money, who was he to judge? He met hundreds of men and women like that every day. Killed thousands more. What difference did it make to him? 

Would it bother him to have her blood on his hands? Even though they were already forever stained black? 

He unlocked his car and got in, trying not to look up and down the street to see if she was lingering. She wasn't - he checked anyway. Clever girl. Was bad news to stick around anywhere on this city's streets, but even worse to be a woman on her own. Especially here. 

With a sigh, he started the engine and began the journey to the Continental. Viggo had done his homework on Helen Moore - now, it was John's turn. 


	2. The Bronze Lantern

This afternoon had been completely _useless_. Helen huffed and all but threw her pencil at the coffee table; ever since leaving Viggo's, she hadn't been able to focus on anything. She had tried - God she had tried - to pay attention to the documentary she'd put on regarding the Sistine Chapel, tried to absorb the information she'd been poring over on Google about this artist, that technique. She'd tried sketching ideas in her pad based on the very unhelpful notes she'd made during the meeting with Viggo. Except nothing had produced anything of value; everything had gone in one ear and straight out the other. She wasn't satisfied with anything she'd made. 

And she was running out of time for herself. She checked the time and groaned, hitting pause on her laptop. The narrator for the documentary had been drawling in his slow-speaking voice since the start, so she didn't know how she'd managed to sit through forty-five minutes like she was back trapped in university lectures again. She would have to pick this up tomorrow, she had a shift to get to. She hastened to her feet, managed to scavenge a rather poor dinner for herself from last night's leftovers and stuck it in the microwave whilst she took the briskest shower she could manage. It was cold, because there hadn't been nearly enough time to let it warm up, but that was okay. She only needed to make sure she felt fresh for her shift anyhow - when she got home, she'd take a longish, warm one to wash off the grime she'd no doubt feel later. 

She neatly tucked away the clothes she'd stripped out of the second she got in earlier; hung the blazer and skirt back up in the very back of her wardrobe. Then grabbed for her usual. A plain black t-shirt, with a neckline that reached up past her collarbones, and jeans. Ones that she knew were a bit big, wouldn't be too tight-fit. By the time she was ready, the microwave had been done so long ago that her recently-reheated food was already starting to get cold. She quickly ate it up before it lost all its warmth - damn it was still cold in the middle - and left the plate to clean later. 

God, she needed a new coat. It was so damn cold, and it was a miracle really that nothing had fallen out of her pocket just yet. She stuck her fingers through the whole and wiggled them at herself as she locked the door to her apartment and descended the rickety stairs. She made certain to put her keys in the _other_ pocket, the one that used to zip but no longer did. This one didn't have a hole, at least. 

The ride to her _actual_ job was always terrible. Rattly subway cars on this route, and the lurkers came out at this time of night. She often spent the whole journey going between cars, staring at one end of the train and ending up on the other, just periodically shifting whenever a weirdo came too close. Mostly, she spelt it dreaming of a day she owned an actual car, and never had to use public transport again. Could sit in the warm leather seat, lock the doors, never fear for her life or her belongings again while trying to just simply get around. Now that would be the dream. 

But it would take a million more shifts at this place to realise it. With a sigh she went around the back to the side entrance to the little club, using her key to get in. No one was in back when she stepped in from the cold into the only vaguely-warmer staff room. Closet, more like. She shrugged off her coat and found her cheesy little ID badge; like she worked in a family-style diner as opposed to a late-night bar. At the very least, nobody bothered her too much here. Sure, she had to listen to them complain for hours about their problems, or sometimes fend off unwanted advances for her phone number, but it was alright pay for the hours she couldn't commit to her dream. Her parents had always said she was being impractical by taking up studies in art rather than a field like science or medicine, but how could she so plainly ignore what her heart told her? Sure, she could've trained in a field that paid well - or at the very least decently - and been unhappy for the rest of her life. She couldn't just ignore that feeling in her gut, that instinct of what she _knew_ was right. So she'd maybe disappointed her parents a little, but only so much that they were concerned for her. Every time they'd call from out of state, she'd have to pretend things were rosy just so avoid a fresh lecture. 

At one end of the bar, she spied a new customer settling into an empty stool; it was quiet tonight, the only patron she'd tended to being the one regular who came here every night of the week to drink his money away. So she made her way up to the newcomer's end, unable to make him out clearly in the gloom. 

And almost stopped dead in her tracks when she realised it was John. 

Helen tried to play it cool, relaxed. _Had he followed her? Did he know where she lived_ ? She recovered from her shock quickly at least, and came to a stop just in front of him. He looked up when she approached, as if surprised to see her standing before him - like he hadn't expected to be served. Pretending to be surprised at _service_ at a _bar_? 

He certainly may have been cute, but he wasn't doing himself any favours. 

"What can I get you?" she asked, keeping her face perfectly straight. She'd met him - if you could even call it that - in her other world, in a world where she was respectable, where her work was valued. He'd never met _this_ Helen, the poor girl who took late night shifts at a dingy bar. So she didn't have to act as if she recognised him, even if she got bad vibes; seriously, had he followed her? 

"Bourbon, please." he replied coolly. Fuck, his voice was soft and low, a perfect compliment to his handsome face and brooding eyes. He was still in that same black suit - not unusual, but he stuck out like a sore thumb still all prim and proper, waistcoat buttoned up under his blazer, tie rigid and neat under his collar. If he was as snobby as his clothes would imply, he'd hate the swill she was gonna serve, but she had nothing else. She set the glass down in front of him and poured, returning the bottle to the shelf behind her. 

She couldn't take it. "Did you follow me?" she asked abruptly, whilst he was seconds away from sipping from the glass. 

He hesitated before drinking, and she was left in awkward silence while he set the glass back down and considered how, maybe, he could answer without sounding like a creep. She'd never seen him here before, this absolutely was not his scene. And seeing him here, the exact same day after having first bumped into him? Had Viggo sent him after her? A chill crept up her spine. Strangely, the shivers only started when she thought about Viggo - _not_ the man that had followed her to her place of work, and was drinking in front of her. 

"Yes." he admitted, wetting his lips with his tongue. "You're in danger." 

_No shit_. "Bold of you to say when you're the one who followed me." 

"Not immediate danger. And not from me." John said in a serious tone, with a serious look in his eye - so earnestly that damn, she believed him. Why? "I implore you to reconsider the job you took from Tarasov this morning." 

"What jobs I accept or don't accept are, I'm fairly certain, my business." Helen said firmly, "I'm not sure why you're trying to warn me away from your own boss." 

"He isn't my boss." 

"Oh?" 

"He's… An associate. He carries my current contract." 

She snorted. "And there's a difference?" 

"I see one, yes." 

How was she having this conversation so calmly? Any other freak would've had the cops called on them - why was she hesitating protecting herself with him? It wasn't just because he was hot. That would be embarrassingly stupid, really. God, that would be so stupid. But even as she desperately tried to find an explanation to the bizarre feeling of safety she felt in his presence, she couldn't come up with another legitimate excuse. He was hot, yeah, but there was something strangely soft about him, despite him being all hard edges and dark colours. 

"How much do you know about me, then?" she asked, idly wiping at a stain on the bar she knew would never come out. It was a habit. "You followed me here - you followed me home too?" 

"No." he said and again, she believed him. "I only know enough to stand a chance at convincing you can that this job is a bad idea." 

"I can get wanting to sabotage your boss," she said, and quickly held up a hand when his mouth opened to protest, "Sorry, associate. Whatever. But why are you trying to sabotage _me_?" 

"I am not trying to sabotage you, the very opposite in fact. I'm trying to help you." 

"What's so bad about Viggo, then?" she prodded, folding her arms down on the bar. She inched closer and he straightened up immediately - as if being near her was repulsive. _Well fuck you too then_. 

He swigged off the last of his drink and set the glass down. "I can't tell you." 

"Of course not. Next you'll tell me I just have to trust your word." 

John raised his brows. 

"Seriously? I don't even know you." Helen groaned, rubbed at her head. This random - albeit hot - guy that had barged in on her meeting, had followed her to her work like a creep, was trying to call her off the first well-paying job she's been offered in _months_. And why was she considering it? 

"You're a clever woman, Helen." he said, and she almost didn't consider how the hell he knew her name. "I wouldn't believe you if you told me that you'd felt comfortable in Viggo's office. You knew something was off. You knew something was wrong and yet you stayed." 

"I don't have to explain myself to you." she huffed, and hated that he was right. But how did _he_ know how she had felt? He knew things about Viggo, explanations for the things she'd felt, and wasn't telling her. "Give me one, real, _explicit_ reason why I should drop this job." 

John hesitated again. He seemed to do that a lot - consider his words carefully. Admittedly it was a breath of fresh air from guys she usually talked with, who spoke before their pea brains had had a chance to think about it. But whilst it would've been enjoyable if she was on the other side of this bar nursing a drink, she found herself instead feeling impatient at his delays. What was that deep that he needed to carefully consider what to say? What about it was so difficult, if he was so certain Viggo was bad news? 

And if so, why has _John_ willingly working with him? 

Whilst he may have been a bit odd, John seemed like a nice guy. Gentlemanly, even. Here he was, coming out of his way to show concern for a woman he hadn't even properly introduced himself to. Then again, she'd met plenty of "nice guys" who did strange things for _her_ benefit, only to try to get into her pants. So for the moment, she'd keep him at arms' length. Even if she wanted to know what he looked like under that stylish suit. 

So that really did lead to the next question: why was a man like John working with a man like Viggo? If he was so terrible, so frightening, so bad that _she_ couldn't take work from him, why was John allowed to? A fresh wash of frustration hit her. She'd faced too many men in her life, both close and strangers like John, trying to control what she could and couldn't do. Women like that were rarer but they happened too. She was so tired of fighting for what _she_ wanted rather than that of the people around her - and if John really was trying to convince her against this job, he was just a hypocrite. And hypocrites had no right telling her what she could and couldn't do. 

"I can't." he simply said again, albeit reluctantly. "I'm sorry. All I can hope is that I've planted a seed of doubt in your mind." 

Helen didn't even try to resist the urge to roll her eyes. She had half-expected the cliche, _knowing would put you in danger_ , so she was a little relieved she'd dodged that bullet. John seemed a little tired of this strained cycle of conversation too, and sighed. Reached into the inside pocket of his blazer, and handed her some cash out of his wallet. 

Her jaw dropped open when she saw how much was in her palm. "Hey, this is-" 

"Consider it a tip." he said simply, and got to his feet. "You don't need to worry - I won't follow you again. I've said what I needed to." 

And here she'd had a smidge of hope that maybe he'd had a bit of interest in her too. It was stupid, really, considering he was weird. Definitely weird. Nothing but weird. Not hot or attractive - absolutely not her type. And his ass absolutely didn't look great in those trousers. 

She sighed when he left. The money he'd given her was at least triple the price of just your average bourbon. It was unnecessary but… It definitely didn't hurt. Shamelessly, she tucked away the fee into the register and pocketed the rest as her tip. _Thanks John_ , she thought, though she knew he wouldn't be happy with where this money would go. It would all just be funneled into supplies for Viggo's commission. 

John had a point - she had felt uncomfortable in Viggo's office. But that could easily be put down to her nerves, or jitters of a new client. The panic of a new job, with new expectations. The fear of committing time and effort into a piece that wouldn't be to the client's wishes - of wasting her precious money only to be paid poorly for her attempt. But the more she thought about it, the angrier at John she felt. The truer his words sounded to her; she'd stepped in and felt uncomfortable with that stony-faced receptionist, got an awful clenching in her gut at the two burly men who'd answered the door looking like wannabe-gangsters on the streets. Despite Viggo's so-called friendliness, she'd felt so unwelcome in seconds when John had stepped in, like she really didn't belong. 

All around? It sounded so sketchy and she couldn't figure out why. 

But could she really just refuse this big a job based on a feeling? Based on the nondescript warnings of a man she didn't know nor could trust? A man who, in all rights, was a creepy hypocrite with a pretty face. 

If he hadn't followed her from Viggo's, to her home, then to work hours later, how did he know where she worked? He'd said he didn't know where she lived and she believed him, so how the hell had he learned her place of work? Was it really just that easy to find out such damming information about a person nowadays? 

Or was this just another thing John couldn't tell her? While Viggo was dangerous, intimidating - John was mysterious and worst of all, intriguing. Even though the conversation hadn't been particularly invigorating, she'd enjoyed listening to him talk. But if he knew the truth of Viggo, surely that meant he was just as bad. He was already a hypocrite, she'd established that; so was he just as dangerous? Evidently he had the means to find her on a whim. He'd gone out of his way to find out where she worked just to warn her against this path she'd set a foot on. 

_Why_? 

Maybe he had a heart. Maybe despite the circumstance, he truly meant well. Which, ironically, would be the first time anyone in this city had done anything for her out of the kindness of their heart. It wasn't doing wonders for that story he was trying to build, of the image he was trying to portray of himself for her. Of dangerous men she shouldn't involve herself with even for a simple job such as this. 

God, Helen couldn't wait for this shift to end. It had been a long, long day - and terribly, she found herself longing for her skinny mattress. 

▂▃▅▇█▒▒█▇▅▃▂

John wasn't a stranger to research; to digging, uncovering every aspect of a person's life. It was a necessary part of the job, to study the routines and habits of his target, learn their life like the back of his hand to exploit it, and in turn, to end it. 

But this was different this time. Learning about Helen Moore was something he _didn't_ want to do, nor even need to. She wasn't his target - and for once he was studying a life in an attempt to save it. And normally, when he visited the Continental and requested the services of the research staff, he felt nothing towards it all. Indifferent, distant; it was a necessary task to complete his contract. Yet now he felt… Wrong. Uncomfortable. Like he had no right to pry into his life and yet he did anyway. 

It almost felt like he couldn't stop himself - like a nag of curiosity was scratching at the back of his head. And since he never felt things like curiosity, he gave into it. Let himself fall down a rabbit hole, even though part of him told him to stop. To back up, to not push his way into her life. But to save it, he had to - he had to find a way to convince Helen that this wasn't worth it. 

The staff had left him to his own devices now. He was a regular here, was well-versed in how to operate the system and servers, so he very rarely needed their help anyhow. There were two others making use of the network of computers available, fellow assassins he didn't know the faces of. But they absolutely recognised him, and were shooting him looks they probably thought were subtle. Maybe concerned John Wick was about to nab the open contracts they'd set their eyes on. Or maybe just curious to finally see Death in the flesh. 

He sighed, set his chin in his hand, tapped at his lips with his fingers. Helen's face stared back at him; a registration photograph, probably for a passport or an ID, taken a few years ago maybe. He could only tell because she was blonde in this photo - now, or at the very least this morning, she'd been a pretty brunette. A warm sort of brown. He shook his head and focused. Nearly forty, riddled with student debt, qualifications from a perfectly reasonable albeit unknown school. Parents lived out of state, a sister. Her family tree went deeper but he thought it better he didn't know. Unmarried. This point he tried to ignore. 

She was certainly an attractive woman, but showing any interest her would be an absolutely _terrible_ idea for everyone involved. And as a man who'd certainly never perused anyone for longer than a few weeks, a few days, he didn't know what he'd want from her even if he did. He'd never had time for that sort of thing. 

And that was ignoring the baggage he carried. 

John pointedly avoided looking too deeply into the information provided to him. It was worrying, really, that anyone welcomed at the Continental could access this spread of information. He'd never considered it in the past - it didn't bother him because the information on himself would never do anyone any good. If someone studied his life with the intent to kill him, they'd fail anyway so it wouldn't matter. But civilians, innocent men and women? There were no restrictions on them, and they certainly couldn't take the sanctuary provided by Continental. And Continental didn't enforce protections against the common folk; any old thug could study someone with the very simple intent of wanton murder, theft. Worse. 

Ironic, really, for him to consider it at all. These things were common in the Underworld, and he certainly had no place to critique it. But he didn't do the things he did for some sort of sick sense of privilege or pleasure. He had nothing else. 

He just needed to know where he could find her. Find her before she returned to Viggo's - the second she stepped back into that office, she'd press start on a stopwatch. Turn a sandtimer on its head. She'd be a ticking time bomb until she saw _something_ she wasn't meant to. If it was anyone else, he wouldn't care, he'd leave them to it. But this woman was innocent; hands shaking like a leaf in Viggo's office, knee bouncing nervously, and most importantly, she wasn't a part of this world. His world. She didn't deserve the death that would come from that - either hers, or the deaths she'd see come about in front of her at Viggo's hands. 

Worse, at his. 

Why did that thought bother him? 

On purpose, he glossed over her home address. Half-contemplated deleting it entirely from the entries, if he didn't know it would probably be sourced and replaced automatically not a few seconds later. He didn't need to know, nor did he want to; if he did, he feared what that would mean for himself. He was already taking steps he would normally never for someone else's sake. Neither of them could afford for this curiosity to fester into something else, something no doubt darker. Something Helen didn't deserve. He couldn't let a mild fascination deepen to an obsession. 

Which, in his personal history, he was terrible at preventing. John either felt nothing at all, or too much. He could kill a man with his bare hands and not even bat an eye, but then he'd find himself mindlessly obsessing over unimportant things. He'd gotten behind the wheel of some beat-up relic years and years ago, and found he'd enjoyed it so much that now, years later as a far richer man, he had a garage stocked with excessive cars he barely drove. He was meticulous about his appearance even when he killed people for a living. He couldn't eat his food with his fingers. 

So, in short - John Wick could not care any deeper than he seemingly already did about Helen Moore. 

Instead, he found the name of a bar. The Bronze Lantern, a tiny little place not thirty minutes away; she served the bar there, on a shift a few hours from now. Taking one last glance over the information presented so neatly on the monitor in front of him, he closed it all. Wiped any memory of the search from his records, and logged out. He rose from the chair he was sat in, saw the eyes on him immediately dart away. He straightened his suit, buttoned up his blazer, and left a gold coin on the service counter as he left. 

Viggo hadn't requested he fulfill any new contacts tonight, nor had he accepted work outside of the Tarasov mob lately. So in reality, he was free until Helen began her shift, and that was bad news. He was excellent at being productive - when he had something to do. And now he had hours to waste and absolutely nothing to do with them. 

So he took the time for a leisurely dinner at Continental. The waiters seemed afraid, or at the very least reluctant, of approaching to serve him. The people dining at the tables stared, without a cause nor shame. He just kept to himself, sighing softly through his nose and minding his own business. His dinner was ludicrously expensive but he'd stopped caring about that years ago. He just enjoyed it while he could, washing it down with a rich wine. And then, again, left a gold coin in the table for good service and left Continental behind. 

Aimlessly, John drove around town for a while. Just enjoyed the smooth control of his ride, listened to the purr of the engine. Time flew by faster than he'd thought it really could, and he set his navigation for the Bronze Lantern. He never felt unnerved or uncomfortable by his surroundings - he'd been desensitised to unpleasantness at too young an age to - but something in his gut churned at the area he drove into. Rundown, walls covered in graffiti, trash on every street corner. New York was a hot-spot for ruin and inevitably crime; it was why he and many of the Underworld thrived here. But for people like Helen, it must've been terrifying walking these streets. That she had to come here alone in the middle of the night, and then walk back to somewhere she could get a cab or - God forbid - head into the underground, made him feel an odd sort of frustration he wasn't familiar with. Who knows how many times she'd appeared an easy target? 

The bar wasn't much better. He managed to find a place to park - fucking help the idiots that tried anything - and sighed at the entrance. Viggo had said Helen wasn't a wealthy woman, and it wasn't surprising really with her career choices. But was this really her only option? 

He'd been in her shoes once. _Beggars can't be choosers_.

Predictably, it was gloomy and depressing inside. Reeked of cheap alcohol and sorrows. Whilst with one foot in the door, John surveyed the space - spied a back door behind the bar. Another with a toilets sign. The bar was the last building on a block, so it had a few, pokey windows along the right wall. A few weak lights overheard, barely even lit up the space. Aside from himself, there seemed to only be two patrons; one in a booth near to the door. He felt a tiny ball of anger flare in his gut - he knew his face. One of Viggo's goons. Maybe Helen should've been a little more concerned about being tailed. 

The only other was a man at the bar, slumped over his drink. Not a concern, truly, but John still kept an eye on him as he took a seat at the other end of the bar. 

Helen did a fairly decent job at keeping composed when she spotted him. She hesitated only once or twice before managing a good poker face when she asked him what he wanted to drink - as if she was trying to pretend she had no clue who he was. 

He knew convincing her would be difficult. Even from the brief time he'd had to learn about her through her conversations with Viggo, he'd already known she was stubborn. She had shocked him, actually, with how she'd managed to pry a few more precious minutes out of Viggo for her interview. But he hadn't expected such a push back - such distrust for his word when he was helping her for nothing in return. It shouldn't have been a surprise, not really. Not when he had admitted to her he'd stalked her in a glorified, well-intentioned manner. Telling her he'd only learned what he had to to save her life was going to do nothing to earn her trust, neither. Really, he just had to hope he would believe her. There was not much else he could do except take matters directly into his hands. 

And he could not let that happen. 

So he relented. Paid her for his drink - more for her company, than anything - and left the bar. Really, he'd done all he could. Far more than he had to, than he ought to. What happened to Helen Moore was none of his business, much like she'd said herself. Yet he couldn't help but feel irritated as he returned to his car, startled the kids nearby who were eyeing it up. He found himself gripping his steering wheel far tighter than was comfortable, taking turns a little too fast. Why couldn't she just listen? Why didn't she just take his word for it? 

He was a stranger, but it _had_ to stay that way. He couldn't let her trust him, couldn't let her in so that she would just believe. Because that would be a far worse fate than being killed by Viggo's order. 

Trusting him would be a mistake worse than death. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm [bubble-bones](https://bubble-bones.tumblr.com/) on tumblr!


	3. Coffee

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, sorry for the delay. Despite being constantly swarmed with ideas, actually writing things has taken a violent nosedive and I've been struggling a bit with writer's block lol. Anyhow, hopefully more will come sooner this time!

It didn't work. 

John knew the instant he set foot in Viggo's office, just past the lunch time rush on Monday morning. He'd spent it taking care of a thorn in Tarasov's side himself, a new and upcoming wannabe gangster proving himself more capable than his big mouth had made him seem; had the bite to back up his bark. It had been a big mouth indeed - when he'd screamed for mercy seconds before John had put a bullet in his skull. 

Viggo was still moving out of his office. His things, scattered in boxes half-filled, half of the furniture missing. He didn't mind disruption - in fact, Viggo often got so bored of his workspace he'd moved buildings twice in the last year even when it wasn't necessary for cover reasons. So it wasn't really a surprise that John entered the office to find him in a pleasant mood despite the chaos, sitting at his desk sipping from a cup of a hot drink that absolutely had whiskey in it. 

"Ah, good afternoon, John." he greeted in delight, a particularly good cheery sound. News has already reached him of John's success, then. 

He didn't bother responding. Just approached the desk and showed evidence of the kill, idly checking the office. Helen wasn't here. But her things were; her coat, draped over the back of one of the couches; her bag, an old and battered laptop set out just beside it. And sure enough, just like he'd suspected, beside various art supplies and cans of paint, was a stationary set printed with daisies. The pen in his pocket suddenly felt heavier.

"Excellent," Viggo approved, sliding John's phone back across the desk towards him. He took it absently - something hadn't happened _already,_ had it? "Is something the matter, John?" 

He tried to appear uninterested, but Viggo followed his gaze over to the section of plastered wall. His associate chuckled. 

"Ah, you are curious about Miss Moore?" 

Again, he didn't even try to respond. Viggo continued as if he had.

"My secretary is currently showing her the facilities. She will be here for a lengthy time, after all - it is best she is comfortable, no?" 

_Not if I have anything to say about it_. John thought with a huff. Maybe he could convince Helen to give up on this job if he offered to cover the fees outright. 

No, Helen was stubborn. He already knew that, so she would never willingly leave - there was nothing he could do to convince her even if he waved millions in her face. Probably far, far more than Viggo was willing to pay anyhow. 

In truth, he felt guilty on Viggo's behalf. That he would scam a hard-working woman like Helen out of the true value of this commission was truly unjust - because the price he would be paying an artist from the Underworld would be nothing less than a sizeable fortune. And that artist would enter here knowing the risk, complete the work, and leave. Aware of what really happened under Viggo's watchful eye, and willing to take his dirty money anyway. They wouldn't question it, nor would they consider the moral ambiguity of knowing what they knew. One thing from John's trip to the Bronze Lantern was made abundantly clear - Helen didn't give a damn what anyone thought. Meaning her own opinion was held in higher regard, not necessarily in an arrogant way. But in a way that would definitely endanger her life if she were to learn things about her client he'd prefer to keep to himself. 

Well, really, it made no difference to Viggo. If anything, he'd probably just make Miss Helen Moore disappear if she even looked as if she'd squeal. 

He heard her return before he saw her. Politely asking the secretary - who he personally knew to be a snivelling, grouchy suck-up for her boss - questions. As expected, Viggo's secretary was short-tempered and snappy with her responses, and eventually, Helen just gave up. 

"All settled then, Miss Moore?" asked Viggo, and Helen regarded John for a short while, before turning her smile on the man behind the desk. 

"Yes, thanks. I'll get started soon." 

"Wonderful." surprisingly, Viggo got to his feet and retrieved his blazer from the back of his chair, "I have business I must attend to, so I will leave you to get on." 

"Business?" John echoed. Had he forgotten something? 

Like he'd just flipped a switch, Viggo switched with ease from English to Russian. 

" _My incompetent fool of a brother tells me our little problem from last week is still proving an issue._ " he grumbled, tone shockingly darker when not politely addressing Miss Moore, " _I will go to his office and ensure the fool resolves it._ " 

John sighed. " _The shipments being intercepted by the Polish, you mean_?"

He felt eyes on him. He looked up, met Helen's curious gaze - the second he met hers, she looked away, shyly. Occupied herself with the monitor of her laptop upon her knees. 

" _Yes, yes. The idiots who believe they can steal from me_." 

" _Why don't you send me? I can make sure the thefts stop._ "

Viggo rolled his eyes as he placed his hat atop his head. " _You are a man of many talents, John, but yours is not the message I would prefer to send_." 

If someone had stolen from him, John wasn't sure what other message to send but death. What was the point at simply stopping at stealing back? The thieves wouldn't learn - but their fellows would if suddenly they turned up dead. 

Cutting off hands didn't stop greedy mouths. 

"Good luck, Miss Moore. Good afternoon." Viggo said with a polite bow of his head, and stepped out of the office with his secretary trailing behind. Helen had managed to offer a tiny wave before he'd walked out of the room entirely. 

John now wasn't sure what to do with himself. There were most likely contracts he could complete in an afternoon or at latest, the evening - and he'd managed to avoid irredeemably ruining his suit so far, so that was a new record for a day. It would've been impressive, if he didn't carry a spare black blazer in the trunk of his car. A spare that had now been replaced by a blazer that had been thoroughly _soaked_ through with the blood of his target and men protecting him. 

He wasn't sure if Helen would be here when he arrived, but for some reason he'd not wanted the truth of her situation to be brought about physically by him. So he had changed as if afraid of her perception of him. 

"I didn't know you could speak Russian." she said thoughtfully. He looked up at her, to find her still staring at her laptop. Clicking through things with the trackpad but eyes glazed over, as if she wasn't really paying attention to the screen. 

"Well, you haven't had much of a chance to learn much of me." he said simply. He found himself hovering as usual, but now was because he wasn't sure if he was welcome or not. With Viggo gone, suddenly the space felt like hers. 

Her eyes flashed up to look at him again, and this time they lingered far longer. Then, he was graced with a tiny smile. 

"You didn't seem too eager to let me get to know you the other night." she said, voice light. Playful, maybe. He wasn't sure. 

John found himself shrugging. "You mistake my concern for dismissal, then." 

"So is this an invitation, John?" she teased, and he wasn't sure if he hated or liked the way his name sounded on her tongue. "Am I allowed to learn more about you?" 

He hesitated, and it was long enough for her smile to fade. 

"My stance remains the same." he decided, "Regarding this… Circumstance, anyhow." 

Surprisingly, Helen laughed. A short, bubbly laugh, that seemed genuine despite their surroundings - despite the fact she was so severely and dangerously out in deep water. Obliviously swimming with sharks. 

"Has anyone ever told you you send mixed signals, John?" she asked with a smile. It was pretty and bright, just like the rest of her. She didn't fit in against the dark blacks and greys of Viggo's office. 

"Once or twice." he admitted. Though the last person to tell him that had been a woman with whom he'd tried to flirt all night - only to kill her when the opportunity arose. She'd told him she didn't bear any hard feelings, knowing one day an assassin would come for her; just before he'd snapped her neck in one clean and mostly painless motion. 

And then there was… No. Didn't deserve the time wasted on that thought. On _her._

So he looked at her instead; looked at Helen, still preoccupied. She was wearing a soft, pastel pink blouse. One that dipped low to show off her collarbone but no lower - her neck was slender and pale. With ease, he could wrap his fingers around it, and against him she wouldn't be able to fight him off. If he could so easily overpower her, what chance did she have against any of Viggo's men? 

But Helen hummed thoughtfully, oblivious to the dark thoughts in his head. She plucked her laptop up into her hands and rounded the sofas. She set it down upon a stack of boxes near to the neatly plastered wall prepped for paint. It didn't seem to bother her how precarious the stack was, nor how unstable her laptop was upon it. Truly, it wouldn't bother him either seeing the appalling state of it - she was probably better off tossing it and buying a new one. 

Could he convince her to give up this job if he bought her a new laptop? 

"Don't you have things to do, John?" she asked as she picked through her supplies. Without turning around again, she pressed a thick-leaded pencil to the wall and began committing strokes to her sketch. Her laptop stayed open as reference while she worked. 

He shook his head even if we wouldn't see. "For the moment, I'm a free man." 

"Is that what Viggo said to you before?" 

He could hear the smile in her voice. They both knew that wasn't what Viggo had said even if only one of them had understood the words. 

"In essence. He doesn't need me." 

"That's devastating." she said in such a distracted tone that he _knew_ she didn't care. He snorted. 

Wait. He _snorted_? 

"So what is it that you do for him then?" she asked, and to anyone else, it would've been a simple question chalked down to curiosity. She turned to offer him a little smile, and he knew that even if this was her workspace now, he was welcome. "When he _does_ need you, anyhow." 

He considers how to word it. How he might try to go about that lie. He has been asked before what he does day to day, of course, and he has always had some form of excuse to avoid answering. Some half-truth that was easy to pretend was reality. He was excellent at many things, but somehow even with his profession, lying was not a strong suit. And, most bizarrely of all, he found himself not _wanting_ to lie to Helen. 

At the very least, not refuse her the truth. He will not hand it over though; he cannot because it would be just the same as letting her fall prey to Viggo. 

"I'm an advisor of sorts." John offered, and got a thoughtful hum in response. "I solve the problems Viggo is unable to directly confront." 

It wasn't a complete lie. He had advised Viggo on all sorts of matters; it wasn't very often he was helpful on the political spectrum, but in matters of life and death - mostly the latter - he was always the first port of call. Confronting problems usually meant stabbing them, shooting them, or a bit of both. And the problems themselves were usually enemies of the Tarasov mob. 

"I see." Helen murmured, caught up in her sketch. Crouched low to the floor, marking in shapes. She wasn't pushing the matter further, but that didn't mean she wasn't interested. He could only imagine the scenarios she must be conjuring in her mind for the sorts of _problems_ he solves on a day to day basis. Helen was an intelligent woman; he knew for certain one of those scenarios was the truth. He knew she had let herself consider, if even for a moment, that he was dangerous. That his occupation, his life's calling, was ending others. And it was only confirmed when she hesitated and turned to look at him. Stared up at him from where she knelt on the ground of Viggo's office - to where he was still standing, unable to relax from an upright posture, hands by his sides. He could only imagine what he must look like with that thought in her mind. 

"Well," she said, in a matter-of-fact tone he wasn't expecting. Maybe more questions, some hesitation. But no, she just smiled at him again. "I don't suppose being in his employ means you know how to operate his coffee machine?" 

If he had expected _anything_ it wasn't that. Well, as a matter of fact he did know. He owned one similar, though he rarely consumed caffeine - more of a tea person if given the choice. He wordlessly went and started operating it without a thought. When he caught himself actually doing as she asked, he put it down mostly to surprise; still mentally ten seconds in the past when he'd dreaded her saying anything else. 

Was he relieved she hadn't accused him of anything? Not that she knew the truth, not really. But she had suspicions; so was he now finding himself glad she hadn't passed a judgement of any kind? That despite a no-doubt nagging through in the back of her head, a natural instinct to consider him a threat, she was instead asking him for coffee. 

Helen took her coffee with a splash of milk and two sugars. A strange sense of - what was that? Contentment? - came out of knowing such a little fact. Somehow it felt more intimate than having access to her entire personal history before him on a computer screen. It was such a normal, tiny shred of information she chose to share with him. 

It was just coffee. Nothing really important in reality. But the smile she gave him when she accepted it from him, the gentle brush of her fingers on his as she took the cup into her petite hands… 

He took a careful two steps back away from her. That short distance between them now - he could not let himself cross it again. He had to be content with knowing her name and her place of work. Her unfortunate financial status, the trap she was stuck in working for Viggo. How she drank her coffee, and her love for stationary printed with daisies. 

But she kept talking. She kept talking and breaking his rules. 

"Well, you already know what I do." she said after a sip of her coffee, setting it down thankfully not on the pile of boxes, but the coffee table near the couches. He tried not to watch her as she returned to her workspace, instead gazing out at the view of New York through the windows. It was rude not to look at her while she talked but this was becoming more difficult than he thought. "So you have free reign. Ask me whatever you want - and no, I will not tell you where I live."

The last part was added with a grin. It was probably a good thing she didn't know he already had easy access to that information. 

So what did he not already know about her that he might want to? He shouldn't want to know anything about her and yet he found himself struggling to settle on one question. Already, John had spoken far more with her in the last twenty minutes than he had with anyone all week. And bizarrely, he didn't hate it - in fact he might've even been able to say he was enjoying himself. 

What would be an appropriate thing to ask, then? He was socially competent, certainly, but he definitely didn't excel at it. He desperately tried to think, to narrow his options down to one that was reasonable - a casual, non-invasive, normal question. 

"Why did you study art?" he asked. A gentle sort of relief washed over him when he heard how it sounded; normal. Curious and polite. 

If John was going to let himself have this, if he was going to allow himself to know her, then he would have to be slow. Patient. Take the information in small chunks lest he grow greedy. 

"God, _the_ question, huh?" she asked with a little groan and he worried that he'd started already on a bad foot. But she was smiling while sketching - he rounded the room again and leaned against a bookshelf. The distance was wider this way, but he could see her face; the concentrated little frown she broke out of to answer him. "My mom told me over and over again that it was impractical and stupid to study something like art, but it's my passion. Always loved doodling and painting ever since I was a kid. I didn't wanna spend my life doing the wrong thing, you know?" 

He didn't, because he'd never had a choice. And as it turned out, his career path fit him well. Though he'd been shaped for this exact purpose from a young age, so he had never been exposed to a different one. Maybe if things had been different, he would've faced a similar conundrum younger Helen had when picking her college course. 

"So you instead live forever on a risk." he mulled, and found he was unable to look back at her when her head snapped to face him. Instead he stared at the spines of the books still yet to be moved. 

"Go on, John. Just say I'm poor, everyone already knows." she huffed, "They're not kidding when they say every artist in New York is a starving artist. But I'd rather live to do what I want to do than live my life in service to someone else's dreams." 

He swallowed. That felt familiar. 

"I… I’m sorry." the words felt strange on his tongue, so rarely said, "I didn't mean to insult you. It must be difficult." 

"I don't want sympathy either." she said quickly, but after a moment, let out a soft little sigh. "It's fine. To be honest, you're the nicest anyone's ever been about it." 

And here he was again with unfamiliarity - he's certainly never had anyone describe him as _nice._ Despite the fact he had more things to say on the matter, he dropped it. How even though he could've argued that chasing her dream had resulted in not living, but merely surviving, he let his mouth close. He'd never felt this urge before. To willingly step down and lose an argument for the sake of peace - for the sake of his opponent's contentment. 

John felt his phone buzz inside his suit jacket. He didn't want to check it. Really, he didn't want to return to his reality. Simply being here and talking with Helen gave him just a glimpse at normality. But it might've been more than that - maybe he'd let himself admit he liked her smile. Liked the strange, uneasy feeling in his gut when she looked at him with it. It was wrong. It was all wrong. 

Yet her little smile felt right. 

"You should probably answer that." Helen suggested and reluctantly, he did. It wasn't so much a phone call like the incessant buzzing had made it seem - but an influx of messages, so rapid it could've been considered spam. He ignored the majority, filtering through to get to the source of it all, Continental. A city-wide alert pushed out. 

Someone had been made excommunicado. 

No reason given, as always - it was business only to the High Table, no one needed to know of the betrayal's circumstance to kill the betrayer. Just a name, a face, their last known location. And of course the bounty: a whopping two and a half million. 

The sort of job he'd usually take. And an agent being marked as excommunicado? That wasn't a simple matter of elimination - that was intensity; stalking someone who knew how to hide their tracks. A fight in which even John would walk away with a heavier limp than usual. Meaning everyone and anyone with a gun would pursue a bounty that high; but it was a lot of money that would never be spent by dreamers on the streets. They’d die before they had the chance to cash in their kill - before they could even try. So in reality, only someone like John would ever be able to fulfill a contract like this. 

Hence why the contract was offered to him with an extra million price tag. 

"Work calling?" Helen asked with a polite smile, and it snapped him out of the bubble he'd found himself in. It felt like stepping in a puddle and falling into an ocean with her. Already she had worked miracles to throw off his own expectations of himself. 

"Yes." he didn't lie even though he wanted to. He would've preferred to stay, really. Watch her progress, ask her more questions. But truthfully, this was _good_. A harsh reminder from the world in which he belonged not to reach outside of its boundaries. Not to grow too fond of Helen Moore, not to taint her innocence with his bloody hands. That the distance he'd set between himself and where she poured her passion into that wall was good, and should never be shortened. 

Though he found himself wanting it to shorten even while he stepped away. 

"Good luck then." Helen wished with a smile, and it startled him for a minute how accurately he will really need it. Perhaps she really was closer to the truth than he wanted to imagine. "And thank you, John. For the coffee." 

"You're welcome." he said, and meant it. But really it wasn't something for her to be grateful over. He could've given her a million things that she should've valued more, and yet he couldn't. _Stay detached, stay away_ . She smiled at him. _Stay detached, stay away._

"Goodbye, John." 

"Goodbye, Helen." 

It felt like a guilty pleasure to say her name. He liked how it felt. He shouldn't. 

▂▃▅▇█▒▒█▇▅▃▂

After John left, every second working in Viggo's office was awful. Not necessarily because she _missed_ John - although his company had been far nicer than he'd made it out to be - but because of the uncertainty the lack of his presence brought. Of the thought of being alone in this office when she didn't know who else was here. Viggo, for… Whatever it was he did, employed a lot of people. She'd hear them going about their business outside the door John had shut behind him, a muted murmur of voices. Mostly, she ignored it; put in one earphone and listened to music while she worked. The other dangled against her chest. 

Within a few hours, she'd made decent progress. She wasn't really sure how long she was expected to stay here each day, but she was definitely leaving before it started to get dark. It was fall, after all, and it would get darker far faster than usual; she didn't want to be making any more trips in the subway at night than she had to. 

She went through the cup of coffee far too fast. It tasted so much nicer than her usual garbage caffeine, and the burst of energy she got from it encouraged her work to progress faster. 

John didn't come back by the time she decided she'd give in for the day. Not that she exactly wanted him to, she just presumed maybe he would return to the office after his business call. What was it he did? She shook her head and decided it wasn't important. She didn't care. He was attractive and had a deep, sexy voice, made excellent coffee, looked great in that suit. But she didn't care. It would be a bad idea to get involved with a business associate. 

That didn't stop her from thinking far too hard about it whilst she packed up her things. When was the last time she'd even gone on a date? Never mind had sex. Would it _really_ be so terrible to get to know John a bit more? He was polite and friendly despite his quiet approach. 

_No, Helen, he followed you to work_ . Or did he? He swore he didn't know her home address so how had he…? Too many questions swirled around in her brain. Would he answer them if she asked? Or would he just avoid it all, like he had when she asked about Viggo? He _couldn't_ tell her so he didn't - simply admitted that it was impossible. 

Well, he was mysterious. All guys were until she started asking questions.

She’d made decent progress for the moment. Loosely sketched out the figure of the demonic being domineering over the left side of the mural, spent far too long correcting the posture or the proportions. It was always difficult transferring a design to a larger scale, but she’d taken the time last night to properly section out her sketches into a grid that could be copied better to the wall. Still didn’t make it any less annoying to properly proportion his humanoid silhouette, the overbearing wings and sharp talons. 

With a sigh, she double-checked her workspace for any remnants of belongings. She’d misplaced a pen the other day; was sure she’d put it in her pocket, but low and behold, that very same pocket had a hole in it. She needed to repair that when she got home. It was just a pen, and she didn’t mind all that much, but she wanted to make sure it didn’t happen again. She couldn’t afford to just keep losing things.

The office door closed behind her with a soft click. Helen tried to make her stride look purposeful, like she belonged here - and yet she still got stared at by the men clustered in the open waiting area of Viggo’s office space. A trio of men in suits, and two more looking like they’d wandered into the wrong building right off the street. _Fuck_ , she hated how they looked at her. It was the same look she’d gotten from random men in the Bronze Lantern, or on the subway, right before they sidled up and tried to touch her. She kept her chin up and went right for the door, forcing a _thank you_ to the man who opened it for her. The elevator reached the floor just as she approached. 

The doors slid open and who stepped out other than a one Mister Viggo Tarasov. He was joined by two men she didn't recognise; one, a shorter man, with squinty, shifty looking eyes and spiked up hair in a suit, and the other a rather burly and intimidating fellow. Awkwardly, Helen stood aside to let them off. 

"Done for the day, Miss Moore?" asked Viggo in that polite, light tone. He offered her a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

"Yes, sir. I'll be back to continue more tomorrow." 

"Excellent." he clapped a hand over his hat to bow in her direction, "Enjoy your evening." he wished, before he and his associates entered the office behind her. 

Hurriedly, Helen stepped into the elevator and hit the button for the lobby. Why was her heart pounding? She'd hoped to get out without talking to anyone. That shouldn't be the case; she'd done jobs before and enjoyed staying around talking to her clients. Viggo was completely different. She couldn't _wait_ to get out of this building. Why did she prefer the idea of being in the subway to in there? 

The street was cold and the wind was fierce, but she felt better when she was outside. She wasn't sure _why_ she felt the urge to look over her shoulder as she walked. And yet she did, over and over again. Would it be silly to call in sick to work tonight? She just felt this overwhelming urge to stay wrapped up in her blankets at home forever and a day. 

Maybe John had a point. Maybe she really should've considered turning Viggo down. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm [bubble-bones](https://bubble-bones.tumblr.com/) on tumblr!


	4. Gentlemanly and patient

Things were getting out of hand. 

Not  _ readily.  _ That would imply John was letting it happen which he was  _ not _ . He was so certain he was fighting it with every fibre of his being; successfully holding himself back, keeping himself at a safe and lengthy distance from Helen Moore. Yet he could only delude himself for so long. 

The first hint he received that it was becoming a problem came a week into Helen's commission. He went into Viggo's office to conduct some business, and realised he was worried he'd appear as rude when their entire conversation was held in Russian. It was for her sake that they didn't speak in English - to ensure she didn't hear things she shouldn't - but when he considered it, he realised truly how stupid the thought was. He shouldn't have  _ cared  _ if she thought he was rude. Perhaps she should've. 

Regardless he shook off the thought, and scolded himself. Viggo decided John was in a bad mood for the way he stormed out without a word; told him as much the next day just before happily requesting John take care of a "mutual friend." Helen had caught him in the hallway with a cup of coffee in her hands. She'd asked him if he was okay.  _ If he was okay.  _

And worst of all, he hadn't known how to answer. So he  _ hadn't _ , and spent all day feeling like a fool for it. He caught himself thinking about it whilst he waited for his target to show in that dark, loud club that evening; wondering what he should've said had he had the time to consider his answer. He'd fled that hallway with the excuse in his head that it was time-wasting to answer her question, and stand in the way of her work. But the puzzled little look on her face as he stepped around her without a word had stuck in his head all day. Perhaps he should've tried to lie, convince her he was fine. In fact, he'd never been anything  _ but  _ fine, not in years - John never wanted anything, and he never went without necessities, so it was rare he had reason to feel any less than okay. And there was never any cause to feel any better than okay. 

Except lately he'd felt himself feeling all sorts of things he didn't want to think about. A sort of uncomfortable clenching in his gut when he thought about Helen working late in Viggo's office - surrounded by those goons of his with no brains, who could at any moment just decide she was an easy target. Another; a tightness in his chest when she looked at him, or tried to strike up more conversation. And third, a dreaded sort of curiosity that had him almost wandering back to Continental's research department to find her records again. To dig into the information he refused to let himself find out properly, through her. 

John Wick was many things, but he was still a man. And whilst he didn't act upon such instincts anymore - not for years - he wasn't immune to admiring a woman like Helen. Nor was he so stupid as to ignore the little looks she shot at him, the attempts to engage him in chatter in the brief windows of opportunity she had. Thankfully, she seemed to be smart; would only try to talk to him if Viggo wasn't around. John would let himself give in, for a little while, if only it wouldn't endanger her. If Viggo knew even for a second that Helen was doing her very best to make John open up to her, he'd  _ use  _ it. Tease him and blackmail him at best. 

Hurt her at worst. 

So he found himself stuck in a terrible, unending limbo. Of the urge to close that gap, to ask her a dozen questions and find out everything he could about Miss Moore. Perhaps even be so bold as to invite her for lunch, or buy her a coffee. To hear her passionately talk about her craft again, to learn more about the woman he found himself thinking about far too often to be healthy. And then it would loop around once more when he managed to grasp at some rationality, and start to rebuild the wall. 

He had promised himself he wouldn't do it again. He had sworn off of feelings long ago; too complicated, messy. It would be the only chink in his armour, his Achilles' heel. John Wick didn't do vulnerability, not anymore. And Helen didn't deserve to be caught up in his web, to learn too much about the wrong people, about  _ him _ , and find herself trapped so suddenly. There was a reason no one got involved with anyone on the outside - the danger they'd be subjected to was one thing. But once you know, there is no going back. There is no restart, no undo. You trip and fall into the Underworld and there's no coming back from beyond the grave. 

So John tried. He never had to truly commit himself to anything anymore; he never had to throw one hundred percent of himself at anything because no one could ever truly prepare themselves to face Baba Yaga. Yet Helen wasn't facing the Boogeyman - she was facing John. Just a man, a man who - as far as she was concerned - wasn't an impossible titan to beat. A man whose reluctance could be worn down by enough smiles and gentle questions. And,  _ Christ _ , it was working. 

"Do you  _ ever  _ smile, John?" she asked one day before he'd managed to slip out of the office. Viggo was out for lunch, and Helen had delayed hers simply so that she could catch a chance at speaking to him. She was dedicated, he'd give her that - but not as much as him. 

"Sometimes." he replied simply, and it got a smile out of her. She was closing over a tin of paint, setting her brushes to soak. Could he… Would it be foolish to invite her for lunch? He never had lunch - he wouldn’t know the first place to go around here. Besides, he’d just decided to distance himself. Hadn’t he?

The lid snapped on with a click, and she folded her arms atop the can. “Alright then,” she began, her eyes playfully alight, “What would cause John to smile?”

_ Very little _ . Instead, he spouted the first thing that came to mind - “Puppies,” he said, and she barked a laugh. Helen gave him such an incredulous smile he had to reaffirm it. “What person wouldn’t smile when presented with puppies?”

“You don’t strike me as a soft and cuddly kinda guy, John.”

“Then what do I strike you as?”

She paused, and for a moment, he regretted asking. But she was just taking the time to consider her answer, much like he often did; he could give her that much. And when finally she started speaking again, she smiled, and straightened, tucking a strand of her auburn hair behind her ear. 

“You strike me as the tall, dark and mysterious type,” she said, occupying herself with the paint can - setting it down near the wall, now covered only partially in sections of paint. When she turned to him again, she looked like she was going to hesitate again. Or, at the very least, contemplated it before saying, “A quiet man - and handsome - but under that surface there’s a dozen different things just screaming to be let out all at once. And you’re either incredibly oblivious to my flirting, or you’re being very polite by not telling me to shut up and get the hint.”

John blinked.  _ Hint _ ? Did she think he wanted her to stop?  _ Did he _ ? He didn’t remember the decision making process being so convoluted; it was always either a yes or no, a fact set in stone. He never had trouble declaring his intentions, because normally, his gut didn’t twist up in the face of it. But with Helen, it felt like a waste - a shame, a  _ mistake _ \- to let this go. To be smart, and practical, and tell her she should stop. To come up with some excuse as to why her flirting made him uncomfortable, some reason they should maintain a professional barrier between them.

So he instead found himself saying something else entirely. “I’m not oblivious.” 

Had he said the wrong thing? She looked crestfallen before very quickly recovering, as if she hadn’t intended for him to see. 

“But that,” he added quickly, realising his mistake almost immediately, “Doesn’t mean that I’d like you to stop.”

And so quickly, with so little effort on his behalf, she was smiling again. Like she was hit with a wave of relief, and coyly turned her attention down to the ground before back up at him again. Christ, she was a beautiful woman; high cheekbones, delicate brows, pursed lips. And her eyes... He knew already he had a thing for the combination of dark eyes and dark hair - thanks to his own history and habits - but Helen’s were warm. Soft and inviting, not at all the alluring, shadowy charm he was used to. 

“Then what would you like, John?” Helen asked - provoked, almost, with that charming smile of hers. 

He hadn’t given her a full list of things that made him smile. For example, right then, he felt the corners of his lips twitch up in response to hers. Would it really be so bad to let himself have her? Just for  _ one _ night - treat her, enjoy her company for only a little while. Get her out of his system, out of his head. It didn’t have to go any further or any deeper. Two adults could enjoy one another without promises of the future. She need not be dragged down into his hell, so long as he could force himself back once it was said and done. 

So he resolved to weaken his guard, a little. He would have her so he could move on.

“I’d like to take you to dinner.” 

If he’d seen her happy before, she was  _ elated _ now. Her smile spread so wide that tiny crow’s feet appeared in the corners of her eyes. 

“I would love to go to dinner with you.” she said softly, but for a short moment, her smile faltered, “But I can’t tonight. Shift I can’t get out of.”

“Ah.” 

He shouldn’t have been so disappointed. Really, he should’ve been glad. Perhaps he could back out now and change his mind altogether, and avoid her for good; contact Viggo only out of office or via the phone. And then when her work was done, he’d never see her again. He could forget about Helen Moore, just like he’d forgotten about…

Swiftly, that thought was brushed aside. He was sure she was having a grand old time in Europe, never sparing a second thought for him. She deserved the same. 

“But I  _ can _ do tomorrow, if that’s alright with you?” Helen said, and he blinked.  _ Oh _ . Well, that derailed any last-minute plans to flee. Then she smiled again, and she might as well have blown the train to bits. “I booked the day off work. It’s my birthday.”

John raised a brow. “Your birthday? Tomorrow?”

“Yes. Don’t ask me how old I’m turning, I don’t want to be reminded.” 

She had a bubbly laugh; warm and lovely to listen to. He had to school his expression straight again, to avoid smiling for a second time already in her company. 

“You don’t have anyone else you’d rather spend it with?” 

He knew of course that her family lived out of state - she wouldn’t be celebrating it with them. But perhaps she had friends or colleagues, anyone she was closer to than the stranger she’d met thanks to her bizarrely suspicious boss. The stranger who was also bizarrely suspicious, and yet despite being an intelligent woman, Helen was agreeing to dinner with him. Perhaps she was the bizarre one.

Helen shook her head. “I’ve spent the last four alone. I’d much rather spend it with you.” her cheeks flushed a soft pink but before he could get distracted by it, she spoke up again. “My sister - twin sister, it’s her birthday too - she invited me to dinner with her and her girlfriend. But just them. I wasn’t going to go, would’ve ended up as an awkward third wheel. So really, you’re doing me a favour.”

She had a sister, he knew that. But a  _ twin _ sister? The world had been blessed not with one beautiful woman like Helen, but two? He tried not to acknowledge how elated such a tiny scrap of her life - that she herself had shared with him - made him feel. Up until now, he’d mostly refused to admit how much he wanted to know her. How deeply intrigued by her he was. And now, he felt silly for scraping for such simple pleasures, especially when she’d already agreed to dine with him. 

And that brought on a whole heap of new questions. He hadn’t taken someone to dinner in a few years now, and it had been even more since it had meant anything. This didn't have to mean anything, either, but he found himself wanting it to be… Well, pleasant. For her sake, more than his. He didn't want this dinner to simply be an expensive prelude to something base like almost every other time he's taken a lady to dinner. Even if this really was just a means to forget about her afterwards, instead of feeling cold or indifferent, he wanted to please her. To find a nice restaurant and let her order whatever she desired; give her an excuse to dress up and enjoy herself, to have one evening where she could let down her hair and not worry about her evening meal. 

Besides, if it was her birthday, he could hardly treat her poorly. It would have to be expensive and luxurious, and he would do everything he could to make it pleasant. Not memorable, he hoped - he wanted her to move on swifter than he could. 

"Tomorrow, then." he agreed, and she beamed at him again. Before he could go, she called after him. From her notebook, she tore out a little piece of paper and almost skipped across the office to him, pressing it into his palm. 

"My number." she explained, and suddenly the paper felt weightier. "Just let me know when and where. And dress code, please, God I don't wanna turn up underdressed - or over." 

He nodded, and put the paper securely in the pocket on the inside of his blazer. It was bold of her to assume that she could be either, pretty as she was. And pretty felt flimsy, insufficient, too childish for a woman like her. If only she had the confidence to match, and then there would be no stopping her. It was also shocking that she thought he'd expect her to simply turn up; he would  _ not  _ let her arrive on public transport or - God forbid - in a taxi while dressed to the nines. He took great pleasure in driving, so it would hardly be any inconvenience to him. 

Still, these were thoughts for later. Whilst Helen had been, as ever, a lovely and welcome distraction, he had work to attend to. Work that was - unfortunately - more important than him flirting with a woman by all logic he shouldn’t go near with a ten foot pole. More important if Viggo wanted to continue making ludicrous amounts of money, anyhow. Whilst Viggo’s little schemes - both legal and not so - formed one of many enormous machines in New York, John acted as the oil. If the cogs hit a snag, say, an opponent, an uncooperative business associate, perhaps even the occasional mole, that was where Viggo would make use of him. A bit of grease - or, as John preferred without the metaphors - killing, and the machine would flourish again. Printing cash, legal or not, it made no difference.

And perhaps John was really in no place to preside over things like legal or otherwise; good or bad; right or wrong. Unfortunately for Helen, in the real world, things were not as clear as the angels and demons she was so fascinated by. No black or whites - just greys. Moral ambiguity, that was the little zone he operated in. Far larger when considered as the full spectrum of the Underworld, but he cared little for it all. The politics and the rules, he couldn’t care less for any of it. So long as he obeyed the rules of Continental, he didn’t give any other law the time of day. 

So she wished him good luck again, and he said his goodbye with a failing attempt  _ not _ to store the image of her smile in the back of his mind. How could she wish him luck whilst having no idea of the sort of work he does? Would she, if she knew? Somehow, he imagined Helen would not be a woman to endorse such an occupation. It would’ve been the perfect tool to disencourage her from accepting this commission, to confess to her the depths of his sins. Would they’ve frightened her? Any normal person would’ve been afraid of him - they  _ should’ve _ . Yet Helen wasn’t normal. She was bright and interesting, and too smart for her own good. 

He had never seen himself as a selfish man. Perhaps he should’ve; ending lives and breaking worlds - a heart too, once. But here, he was venturing down a dangerous road. Toeing a line so dangerously, he could step over at any minute. If his actions brought Helen, a good and innocent woman, down into this dark hell, he could never forgive himself. He tried to live a life of few regrets. In his line of work, it was difficult to mourn every poorly chosen step, else one would become paralysed with regret. However, that would very swiftly change if things turned sour. Helen couldn’t get back out if she knew even for a second, no one could leave for the gates of the Underworld were forever sealed tight. 

Perhaps he should burn the little slip of paper against his chest. Refuse to contact her tomorrow, birthday or not. The better gift would be to leave her to her life; to free her of the risks she didn’t know she would take with him. 

John was thinking too hard. That only worked out well when he was going to great lengths to complete a contract. Past experience had shown that having his head and heart in the same place at once was dangerous; allowing Helen free reign in his mind was somehow  _ worse _ . By the end of tomorrow, he would be free. He would no longer be consumed by thoughts of her. 

And she would not even come close to his heart. 

▂▃▅▇█▒▒█▇▅▃▂

For the first time in a week, Helen managed to flee Viggo’s office without interacting with anyone. Too many times, she’d bumped into the man himself as she tried to leave for the day; he’d ask after her progress, her health, her opinion on the weather. She’d engage for the duration, hate every second, and get in the elevator the first chance she got. Other times, it would be his secretary, and she minded those conversations less; discussions of pay, or work hours. Conversations which felt more comfortable, more reasonable. There was still something Helen couldn’t quite place about Viggo that made it unpleasant to talk with him - or any of the men in his employ that had, unfortunately, tried to speak to her once or twice. 

Maybe  _ to _ her was a stretch.  _ At  _ her was better. And it was never in English, either; some grumbled, gravelly Russian she couldn’t stand a chance at grasping, but she refused to think too deeply about it. Plus, it would do her no use to bother remembering. She couldn’t exactly ask John for a translation, and she definitely did not want to embarrass herself by trying to repeat what she’d heard. 

And somehow, she could imagine it wasn’t very pleasant when understood, either. 

The only person she wouldn’t have minded bumping into before leaving was John. But she hadn’t seen him since before lunch, when she’d been so silly. She’d essentially said  _ fuck it _ and threw all professionalism out of the window. And God, how had it worked? How had John looked at her, covered in speckles of paint with messy hair, and asked her out to dinner? Out to  _ dinner _ . Oh, she could hardly contain her excitement. She felt like a giddy little teenager, all raging hormones and bubbly glee. When was the last time she’d been asked out on a date? Taken out for a nice dinner? 

When was the last time she’d had  _ sex _ ?

Now  _ those  _ were thoughts she shouldn’t have been having on that busy subway car. True, she’d let herself indulge in some more fantastical thoughts about John, but she’d never thought that maybe - Christ, maybe - they’d come true. She’d hooked up after a casual date before. Wasn’t the greatest thing in the world, sure, and left her feeling a little empty inside afterwards, but she had a good feeling about him. Even if their situation was a little bizarre at best, Helen still wanted to have reasonably high expectations. She’d caught the way he’d looked at her, in passing glances he thought she hadn’t seen; a wandering gaze that seemed to just soak her in. 

But it was just a date. She didn’t need to get carried away, not quite yet - with a firm reminder to keep her head out of the gutter, and instead hopeful in the clouds, she retrieved her phone from her coat pocket as she stepped back out onto the street. 

Swiping through her contacts - perhaps she should clean these, considering most were work numbers from years ago? - she found just the person she needed. It took a few rings, but when finally she picked up, Evelyn Moore sounded  _ surprised _ that her own sister would even call.

“ _ Helly-Welly, to what do I owe this honour? _ ” came her voice down the phone, and Helen rolled her eyes.

“Don’t be so dramatic.”

“ _ Hello to you too _ .”

“Hey, you started it.” Helen felt herself smile despite the shiver that wracked through her at the sudden gust of wind. She dreaded the impending snow that’d come in a month or two; would she even be able to afford the heating bill?  _ That _ thought caused another shudder all on its own. “I was just calling to let you know I won’t make it tomorrow.”

“ _ What? You can’t chicken out again, Hels, Kate really wants to meet you. _ ” 

She sighed, softly. But Evie heard it loud and clear.

“ _ Fine. If you  _ **_really_ ** _ don’t want to come _ ,” her sister grumbled through the receiver, “ _ You have to give me one good, solid reason as to why _ .”

Helen bit her lip. Would admitting she had a date be shallow?  _ I’m not coming to celebrate our birthday together because I wanna go get some dick! _ She sighed for a second time. Again, she was getting ahead of herself. Maybe John would continue to be as gentlemanly as he has been and simply refuse to even touch her all evening. 

“ _ Will you stop sighing and moping? You’re making me depressed- _ ”

“I have a date.”

Damn, there. She’d spat it out - and for a moment, all she got was silence. Then, an abrupt bark of laughter. Her cheeks flushed with both shame and anger; was it really that hard to think she could be remotely interesting? That anyone would want to take her out and get to know her? After all, she and Evie had been raised by the same people. They had  _ similar _ interests at a bit of a stretch. They walked and talked the same. Had the same face for God’s sake! So how was it that difficult to imagine  _ Helen _ could be flirted with the same as Evelyn had?

“ _ Oh my God, you’re serious? _ ” 

“Yes, I’m serious. Why is that funny?” Helen snapped, and Evelyn spluttered.

“ _ I just- I really thought you were pulling my leg! Hels, that’s great! _ ” that was a bit more like the support she wanted. Helen could almost hear Evelyn’s smile. “ _ How long have you been seeing him? _ ”

Unlike herself, Evelyn knew Helen was definitely far more inclined to men than women - she could recall a few moments in her life where she’d tried things with girls, certainly. With a devil on her shoulder like Evie goading her on to do all sorts of things she would’ve been too shy to try alone, a younger Helen did things that nowadays, she feels coy about. So it wasn’t a surprise, really, that she assumed it was a man right off the bat.

But what concerned her more was that Evelyn just immediately presumed they were  _ already _ dating. It wasn’t that much of a stretch, really, considering Helen had chosen to spend the one day of the year she gave to herself with someone. She didn’t want to lie and implicate John as anything more than he was, but she was sure news would get back to their mother if she admitted to Evie that she was spending her birthday with a glorified stranger. And  _ that _ was a lecture she didn’t want, not again. By her mother’s standards, they should’ve both been happily married by now, maybe kids on the way. With Evelyn’s tendencies, it fell on Helen to provide grandchildren; sure, she wanted kids, someday. 

Helen was  _ not _ about to let John get tangled up any deeper than he was simply by getting involved with her. 

“Just don’t go calling Mom, okay? No gossiping.” she proposed instead, and Evie hummed in agreement immediately. Alright, lying wasn’t so hard - not when she didn’t have to steel a poker face and watch her body language. “We haven’t been seeing each other for very long,”  _ not a lie, _ “But he’s really gentlemanly and patient. And - don’t laugh - he’s really tall and handsome. Got the most amazing eyes.”

Evelyn made a gagging sound on the other end, and she couldn’t help but bark a laugh. “ _ Gimme the real goods, sissy, _ ” she teased, “ _ Don’t skimp on details _ .”

She rolled her eyes. Of  _ course _ the first place Evie’s mind jumped to was the same gutter Helen had barely clawed her mind out of. This was the same girl that’d whispered to her about her sexual conquests late at night when Helen tried to sleep; gotten giggles and curious questions out of a younger Helen. The same girl that had made an old couple nearly lose their eyeballs when she’d gushed about her girlfriend’s boobs over a catch-up lunch. 

“We haven’t, yet.” she said bluntly, “I told you, he’s gentlemanly and-”

“ _ Patient, sure. Whatever. But come on, I’m sure you have eyes. _ ”

“Don’t make me think about this here, you bitch. I’m outside in the cold.”

Evelyn groaned. “ _ Fine, fine! Just call me or text me when you’re home, okay? I wanna know all the deets. _ ”

“I’ll leave you with one little tidbit.” she offered, and her sister perked up. With a guilty little smile, she whispered, “He has a  _ really _ nice ass.” and hung up.

Her cheeks felt hot despite the icy air. God, was she really that petty? She was a woman, she was  _ allowed _ to admire. But it felt different actually saying it. Suddenly she felt all coy and flustered, and couldn’t wait to get home and take a cold shower. Had John  _ really _ asked her out? Lunchtime had felt like years ago, and now she was starting if she’d just imagined it all. If perhaps she’d just daydreamed, fell asleep on the job and drooled over the really inappropriate and maybe ill-considered relationship she really wanted to build with her boss’ business associate. The business associate that looked unfairly attractive in a suit, who seemed hesitant to give anyone a smile but had smiled at  _ her _ . Who’d made her coffee on and off for a week, caught her at every chance he could go speak with her alone. Who’d really, actually,  _ for real _ , asked her to dinner. 

When finally she stepped in through the door to her apartment building, checked she was alone in that damp and cold stairwell, she finally gave in. Let herself release a quiet little squeal, like a giddy teenager. Maybe things were actually starting to look up,  _ finally _ . A well-paying job, no new holes in her coat, and now, a date. A date with a really cute guy who was polite and considered every thought before it left his mouth; who was bilingual and well-spoken, and had a voice so deep it could be a sin. That was one of the things she was looking forward to most of all. Their conversations in Viggo’s office had been so stunted and short-lived, both too afraid to engage in anything deeper or more meaningful. She couldn’t place what it was, but she had felt afraid almost to allow Viggo to know about… Whatever was growing between herself and John. And wordlessly, he’d agreed - like he knew the real reason why they couldn’t share their little secret. 

She hoped John would call or text soon. Seeing him tuck away her number with such care into the safety of his suit jacket had warmed her heart. Surely it would be soon? Oh, she hoped. She wanted to hear his voice again, but she’d settle for seeing how he texted. Against the prospect of spending time alone with him, suddenly her birthday now meant nothing. 

Christ, she hoped he wouldn’t get her a gift. He could’ve been the goddamn gift. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm [bubble-bones](https://bubble-bones.tumblr.com/) on tumblr!


	5. Fool

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This hasn't been edited yet, I just wanted to share it as soon as it was finished lmao (so please excuse any errors you might find!)

It had certainly been a long time since Helen had felt pre-date jitters.

The guys she’d dated in the past had caused them, of course. Nerves, mostly, that hesitant excitement of opening herself up to another person in the hopes that one, they’d do the same, and two, think she wasn’t a psychopath. Aside from her looks - which she was terrified would eventually fade - she wasn’t exactly a catch; no fortune, a mediocre social life, poor career prospects, an apartment with a leaky showerhead that only spat out hot water if it felt like it. That last one was more of a tangential rant, but she had had one guy  _ yelp _ at the temperature of it in the past. 

But more than that, she was excited about  _ John _ . She felt terrible comparing her past attempts at romance to him, considering it was an unfair game in terms of personality. For some reason, she usually attracted loud guys, some happy like golden retrievers - others, more like peacocks eager to show their fancy tails. More often than not, she saw the tails both as they flaunted themselves,  _ and _ when they ran away from her. She had a type, physically; that was painfully obvious, so John could’ve easily lined up alongside her past failures and fitted in. He was more attractive, of course, more mysterious. But whilst everyone else in that line would start talking the second she asked them about themselves, she had this feeling John would wait until everyone else was done - and then  _ ask her _ about  _ herself _ .

Of course, she didn’t know him all that well. It could very easily be an act, a well-practised game of manners and politeness. He executed it very well if it was a lie just to get into her pants. Worst of all, it would work, and better yet she didn’t think she’d feel  _ any _ shame at all for it. And if that was what he wanted too, then perfect. It wasn’t the best way to start a relationship in reality, but that all depended on whether John wanted to take this further than a single date. She knew she sure as hell did. 

When she’d woken up that morning, she’d checked her phone first thing. She had a handful of messages, from family and friends wishing her a happy birthday; a few pings on the Facebook timeline she hadn’t touched since March. And yet she found herself - terribly - ignoring all of them but the one at the bottom from an unknown number.

**Unknown:**

_ Helen, it’s John. Sorry I took so long to reach out _ . 

It was strange, really, when she considered at what time he’d sent that message. Why had he been awake at 4:23am? She shrugged it off and carried on reading; it was an entire paragraph, perfectly proper and grammatically correct. 

**Unknown:**

_ I’ve arranged a table at a restaurant for 6pm. I was going to leave it a surprise, but if you’d prefer to let someone know where you are, please ask and I’ll give you the details of the place. Since you asked so nicely, the dress code is formal. I look forward to seeing you. _

She smiled. Well, it was missing the one thing every other message had, which was a jovial  _ happy birthday! _ but she’d take it. Of course she’d take it. First of all, he took the time and effort to pointedly ensure what he’d written came across like a printed novel. She appreciated a man with an excellent grasp on grammar. Second, wanting to surprise her? And then immediately offering to ruin his own surprise simply for the sake of her comfort? It sounded like such a small little thing, such a necessary, basic step. But it was alarming, frankly, how few guys considered a date to be such a danger. 

Then of course settling her concerns over dress code, which  _ always _ scared her on a fundamental level. Her wardrobe was her worst enemy at times. She was sure she had a nice dress stored up at the back of the closet that her Uncle Nic, unnecessary and flash with cash as he was, had gifted to her for a birthday a few years back. She’d never gotten the chance to wear it, so this was exciting too. 

Most importantly, he was looking forward to seeing her. It wasn’t just  _ her  _ that was getting overwhelmed with excitement and feeling giddy with jitters. Well, she couldn’t exactly picture John sitting up in bed repressing a squeal of glee, so maybe  _ that _ was a stretch. But she had such a good gut feeling about him. She wouldn’t let herself get carried away, but maybe this was it; maybe this was finally her happiness being handed to her by the universe on a bizarre silver platter. 

She’d said that a few times in the past though. 

Silly, hopeless romantic Helen. Always thinking the next guy that strolled into her life was her Prince Charming here to sweep her off her feet. 

She wouldn't mind, of course, if John  _ was  _ her Prince Charming. 

Getting out of bed, she made certain to save his number. It was the first time in a little while she'd had a day to herself, so she took extra time in the shower - a warm one for once - and hummed a tune to herself while she went about her morning routine. Coffee wasn't a filling breakfast, but two friends from her…  _ Dancing  _ class had invited her for lunch as a birthday treat. She made a mental note to keep it to herself what sort of dancing it really was if John asked. Somehow she wasn't sure he'd have a positive reaction to knowing she pole-danced on the regular.

It started as a joke at first, but then she found herself really enjoying it, and one thing led to another with the health benefits and the adrenaline and she found herself going whenever she could afford it. 

So between getting ready, rushing out to be there for lunch on time, it slipped her mind to respond. By the time she remembered, it hit her with such a wave of horror, she almost let out a gasp and startled her lunch buddies who were in the middle of an intense discussion about a reality TV show they’d been jointly watching. So she retrieved her phone and quickly began typing out a message.

**Helen:**

_ Hi John! Seems we’re both terrible at responding in reasonable amounts of time, lol! That sounds great to me, if it’s no trouble could you let me know what the restaurant name is at least? I’m excited for later! _

Not expecting to hear back from him for a little while at least, she returned her phone to her pocket. She figured, perhaps, she should  _ try _ to engage in her social life a little, even if she had no idea what her two friends were talking about. She asked enough questions to keep them entertained in involving her in the conversation, and she sort of understood the situations between the people on the television. But she personally couldn’t see the appeal of watching other people fight on a screen; maybe she’d have to give an episode a try like they were insisting to see what it was all about. 

When their lunch was over and done with, Helen went with them to browse some stores. She wasn’t looking for anything in particular, but it was nice to spend some time in the company of normal people - not the bizarre figures in Viggo’s office, or the sad customers at the Bronze Lantern. By chance, she decided to check the time, and was delighted to see a few new messages from John. The first, a link to a website - the restaurant it appeared at a quick glance. As for the second:

**John:**

_ Happy birthday. How have you enjoyed your morning? _

A little stiff, but at the very least he replied pretty promptly. Maybe she had a chance at holding a conversation with him whilst her friends gushed over the clothes they were trying on. 

**Helen:**

_ Thank you! Yes, it's been quite relaxed for once, had lunch with my friends. How's your morning been? _

Almost immediately, she was graced with a response. 

**John:**

_ Mine's been pleasant.  _

She hummed in thought. Surely she could wriggle a little more out of him than just that.

**Helen:**

_ Do you have work today? _

**John:**

_ Not today. Any jobs I could be sent on would take far too long, and I’d hate to risk being late. _

**Helen:**

_ Does being on call as a consultant usually have such sporadic work hours? _

That was risky; she was digging and she knew it. For whatever reason, John was seemingly at war with his career. Or at the very least, had been particularly flighty whenever questions were asked. He seemed to dance around specifics as if he was afraid she’d judge him. What could be so terrible about it? She certainly was in no place to judge, considering she’s spent the last five years barely clinging onto her tenancy for the sake of her so-called dream. 

**John:**

_ Unfortunately, very sporadic. Unpredictable.  _

_ But it isn’t as terrible as it may sound. _

Well, that was certainly nowhere near as defensive or deflective as a response as she might’ve expected. That was a good sign, she hoped - that he was willing to be a little more open with her than he had been so far. Maybe tonight would be the first step in learning more about him. If he’d let her, anyhow. 

**John:**

_ On my day off, however, I’d much rather talk about more interesting things than work. _

**Helen:**

_ Like? _

**John:**

_ You.  _

Oh. She was glad no one was looking at her, because she felt her cheeks warm with telltale signs of a blush. Before she could lose his attention, she started typing again.

**Helen:**

_ Anything in particular I can help you with? _

**John:**

_ I’m just trying to picture you in anything but clothes covered in paint. _

**Helen:** __

_ I can assure you, the dress I’ll be wearing will NOT have paint on! _

_ Promise. _

**John:**

_ I look forward to it _ .

**Helen:**

_ And what will you be wearing? _

**John:**

_ A suit _ .

**Helen:**

_ You always wear suits. _

**John:**

_ This one will be special _ .

**Helen:**

_ What makes it special? _

**John:**

_ I feel like this is a trick question. _

_ You really want to know? _

**Helen:**

_ Don’t skimp out on any details! _

When at first he didn’t respond, she thought perhaps he was done with the little game, and felt a bit of disappointment snag at her chest. So she simply sighed, and set her phone back in her pocket - surely he just suddenly got busy? It hadn’t been just her enjoying a little bit of playful banter? 

Inevitably she checked her phone again, and nothing. Instead of feeling jumpy and - in turn - silly, she returned her phone to her pocket and didn’t check it again until she was home. It hadn’t been a long walk, and not actually at all that long since she last texted John, but she was still impatient. She set it down on the kitchen counter and tried not to dive on it the second she heard it ping.

**John:**

_ It is my only suit that has a double-breasted jacket and matching peak lapels. It’s designed with a fitted cut, tailored to my sizes. The jacket has double vents and a trio of kissing button cuffs on each wrist. Most importantly, there’s plenty of pockets. _

_ You would never see me working in this suit. It’s far too luxurious for everyday. _

Helen blinked -  _ uh yeah, _ it sure sounded far too luxurious! Honestly, she didn’t even know what half of that meant; she could make guesses but she hoped there wouldn’t be an exam on it. And it was sort of cute, really, how precise and conscious he was of all the small details like that. Sure, it had taken a while to get a response because of it, but it was quite sweet that he’d wanted his response to match the time it took to explain. 

**Helen:**

_ Ooh, you’re busting out the bespoke suit for me? I’m flattered. _

She didn’t know many men who actually owned bespoke suits. Far too expensive to get made, so even if they did have one, it was just the  _ one _ . Which was why she was taken aback by John’s next message of implying this suit was one of many. 

A sudden, almost treacherous thought snuck into her mind:  _ was he rich? _ Certainly, she’d never dated someone who dressed in a crisp suit every day, and worked with a businessman like Viggo. She still had absolutely no idea how a consultancy job could pay a salary so high if it was true, but she wasn’t about to stick her nose up at the idea. She hated the idea of taking advantage of someone else’s wealth, but it couldn’t hurt as an added bonus. Her sister Evelyn had no qualms about it - the woman she was dating, Kate; Helen was sure Evie had said her parents were wealthy - so why should she? 

Might’ve made it a little more difficult if they came from wildly differing social circles, though…

But it was far too early to tell, of course. Just because he had a few bespoke suits didn’t mean anything. Nope - meant nothing. 

**Helen:**

_ Thank you for sending that link btw. I appreciate it! _

**John:**

_ Of course. I’d like for you to feel comfortable with me. _

**Helen:**

_ Me too _

Now  _ that _ was something she hoped he didn’t read too deeply into. Sure, she was starved in affection, touch, hadn’t had sex in… Fuck, was it years now? Not to mention she desperately wanted this to go somewhere, because John had done wonders to make her whipped just from his smile alone. But she didn’t need  _ John _ to know how desperate she was. God, just thinking about him picking up on that made her face shine a million different colours of red. 

▂▃▅▇█▒▒█▇▅▃▂

John was very tired of overthinking things. All day he had been plagued by thoughts of one, hesitation; two, confliction; and three, most unfortunately, regret. He was very much looking forward to this evening, and that was perhaps the thing he hated most. Once more, he looked over the text messages he’d enjoyed with Helen throughout the day, before locking his phone and putting his foot on the gas. At least if he decided to drive at high speeds where he could, he could focus on driving rather than thinking. 

He  _ liked _ Helen. Worryingly so, and they hadn’t even sat down and enjoyed a full conversation yet. It was wrong on so many levels - the most important being that he was endangering her life simply by existing in her vicinity. If  _ anyone _ saw them together, then it would only get worse. But the worst part was, he couldn’t help himself from glancing in the rearview mirror to check his hair on the way to collect her; he wasn’t stopping and turning around. He wasn’t telling her he couldn’t do this - he wasn’t deleting her number and avoiding her like the plague. 

Which, by all moral rights, he should’ve. 

In reality, when considered with a clear and shrewd mind, he was being nothing short of a fool. It was idiotic to pursue anyone in his line of work - outside or inside. He’d heard the stories of those on the outside, the way in which they’d been unknowingly lured in. Killed as collateral, used as blackmail, extortion. And he didn’t need stories for those that attempted to find love on the inside; to find a kindred soul in another killer. He had that all under wraps for himself as firsthand experience as to why that didn’t work. 

Even John Wick had been in love, once. And like everything he touched, he’d squeezed the life out of that too. 

And yet despite everything, he found himself having high hopes. High hopes that one, Helen would be everything he wanted and more; that tonight would go excellently and perhaps for once in his life, he might have something tangibly pleasant. Or two - the less ideal of the many possibilities that tonight could bring - that Helen would find him boring. Dull. Disinteresting. That she’d believe his lie for every word and decide she couldn’t wait to leave and never speak to him again. 

Helen had agreed to let him drive her - thank God. Smartly, she hadn’t given him a home address to which he should pick her from. He didn’t want her to walk somewhere in the cold of course, but it was better than him knowing where she lived. So he found himself arriving at an intersection that was quiet on the roads, but busy on the sidewalks; a main street leading to many other avenues of night life. Not that he’d know what that night life was like from experience. The only times he’d experienced it was when he was stalking a target, and it had only ever appealed to him as a younger man. Certainly not in his interest anymore. 

He’d had a fight with himself earlier in the garage of his apartment building. Of the five parking spots he had to his name, each was filled by a different vehicle that was individually valued at higher than most people’s entire livelihood. He could’ve played it safe and gone with a more reasonable street car like the Mercedes.  _ Or _ , which the only surviving remnant of the boyish side of his brain had decided, he could impress her by going above and beyond. By being excessive, perhaps please her with a show of his wealth. 

That’s what he was telling himself anyhow, behind the wheel of a Bentley.

At the very least, his day job came with one benefit; how, when he found a reasonable place to park and get out of the car, he was able to find Helen amongst the sea of faces with relative ease. Unfortunately, it also meant he  _ immediately  _ spotted the man beside her, and the uncomfortable expression on her face as she spoke with him.

John locked his car and made a beeline across the street to her. Her eyes flashed up at his approach and he’d never seen such relief on someone’s face before. He approached with a smile, but didn’t allow himself the pleasure of taking her in just yet - there was something of higher priority who was dangerously close to getting punched in the nose. Something akin to dread settled in his stomach when he realised he recognised the stranger; the same one that had followed Helen to her night shift to the Bronze Lantern.

The thug of Viggo’s John wasn’t sure was following orders, or his own curiosity. 

He didn’t even have to say anything. The man took one look at his face, recoiled a little, and then scowled so fiercely it looked like it could’ve hurt. And when he’d turned his back and stomped away, John finally turned his attention to Helen.

“You have amazing timing,” she said with a delightful smile, and brought her coat closed tighter around herself. It was so flimsy and thin - she’d enjoy the heated seats in his car. 

“I can’t say I try.” he admitted, but allowed himself a smile too. He offered her an arm, and he hated how pleased he felt with hers linked with his. “He wasn’t bothering you for very long, I hope?”

He’d have to track down that idiot later; take care of him before he could report back to Viggo. An unfortunate accident, of course, that John had nothing to do with. An accident that would involve a bullet through his skull… Maybe he’d need help from someone with a bit more finesse to pull it off. How many of his very few trusted, yet deft-fingered friends were in town? He took his phone out of his pocket and swiped through contacts whilst he walked Helen back to the car. Marcus often took the same approach as him, just with a sniper rifle at a distance to avoid getting the blood on himself. But… perhaps he could make it look like the poor fool tripped down a set of stairs. 

He opened the door to the passenger side for Helen, and waited patiently for her to stop eyeing the car up with surprise. The second she was settled and the door was closed behind her, he dialled Marcus. 

“ _ Let me guess - you’ve made a mess and need me to fish you out of it? _ ” came the immediate answer after only a single ring. John rolled his eyes and rounded the side of the car, but didn’t get in just yet. 

“You make it sound like that happens a lot.” he said with a sigh, and Marcus barked a laugh.

“ _ Do birds fly? Do humans breathe? Is the sky blue? _ ”

“No, actually.”

“ _ What do you want, John? I was hoping to relax this evening for once _ .”

He made certain to lower his voice - it was difficult to hear outside noise from inside the car, of course, but he still wanted to ensure Helen could  _ not _ hear him. “I have a job for you, discreet and  _ accidental _ . Taken care of as soon as possible.”

Marcus didn’t say anything for a moment, and then heaved a sigh. 

“ _ So long as it isn’t the Mayor, I can do it tonight. Not taking anything too difficult though, I hope you know that _ .”

“Good, because it’s just a low-level lackey. Easy enough.”

“ _ And you can’t do it yourself because…?” _

“Witnesses. Also I’m busy.”

“ _ You? Busy? _ ” he didn’t even try to mask his disbelief. 

“Is the sky blue?”

“ _ No, actually. _ ”

Yet again, John found himself rolling his eyes. “If I send you details, will you do it?”

“ _ Yeah, but you owe me a favour, John _ .”

Fair, really. Still, he hated owing favours; they were more dangerous  _ and _ more valuable than simply paying for something to be done. But, if he wanted it sorted any time soon, a favour really was the least of what Marcus could’ve asked for in payment. 

“Done. Thank you, Marcus.”

He didn’t even get a sassy remark; simply had the call ended. Well, he saved him a job. He forwarded what details he could remember about the thug and prayed it would be enough - Marcus had a brain, he could do the rest. He returned the phone to his pocket and undid the buttons of his jacket as he opened the car door and settled in beside Helen. It felt bizarre to see her in a place that was so inherently his. The expression of wonderment faded away quickly into something a little more unimpressed when she looked at him. Something twisted in his gut. 

"Work?" she asked, and he nodded quickly. 

"Sorry." he made a point of taking his phone out of his pocket and showing her as he turned it off. "I won't take any more calls tonight."

Her lips twitched - and this time, upwards. She didn't say anything regarding the phone, though; simply examined the fresh interior of the car - barely used John realised - and let out a breathy laugh. 

"I'm not sure what I was expecting, but it wasn't this," Helen admitted, "A consultant salary is a lot better than I thought." 

Everything about her was riddled with such suspicious disbelief; her shrewd expression with the quirked brow and upturned lips; her tone of voice, lilted in surprise. Even in her posture, with how she hesitated to fully relax into the leather of the seat behind her. And yet even though he  _ knew  _ she didn't believe him for a second that he was telling the truth about his career, she wasn't pressing questions. Nor was it encouraging her to back away. Helen just looked at him, vaguely hopeful, as if expecting some sort of explanation.

Well, he was going to disappoint. 

"Seatbelt, please?" he asked instead as he buckled his own. He caught her rolling her eyes just before she twisted in her seat to grab her own. After she was settled, he took off again - at less dangerous speeds perhaps than he'd been going before. In reality he may or may not have had a slight obsession with toeing the speed limit at all times, but Helen didn't need to know.

Helen was looking at him. When he stopped at a set of red lights, he returned the gaze with a quirked brow; and that encouraged a delightful smile onto her lips.

"What?" 

She let her eyes roam over the dashboard, taking in the build in radio and the dozens of dials and buttons. Honestly, he wasn't sure he knew what all of them did; this was one of his flashier cars he didn't normally risk taking to work. 

"I just never saw you as a Bentley kinda man." she admitted, and he hummed. 

"Oh?" 

"Yeah. I mean, they are very fancy and sleek, but I don't know… I guess maybe I'd say you seem like more of an enthusiast; old muscle cars and loud engines." 

His lips twitched. She could read that just from a guess? 

"You're right. But," he said when the lights changed, "I don't actually own my dream car." 

"What would that be?" 

She was humouring him - every woman he'd ever spoken to about cars did. Nervously, he glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. Christ, he didn't want to bore her already, but… She was looking at him even if he was paying attention to the road. 

"A Ford Mustang." he said and she nodded thoughtfully, "Boss 429, specifically."

Helen's face twisted into a frown. "But that's a 70s classic car, right? They have to be so rare nowadays." 

_ Oh. Be still my raging heart.  _ "'69, actually. But you're not wrong - they're incredibly sought after. I've wanted one since I was a kid." he glanced her way with a smile he didn't realise was even growing on his face; she wasn't humouring him, she was  _ entertaining  _ him. Engaging with him. "You know your cars, Miss Moore?"

She let out a little laugh. "Not as much as you, I think." she admitted, "But my dad's a bit of a fanatic. I grew up hearing about classics all the time; pretty sure he still drives his Torino." 

"A Ford Torino?" John let out a little whistle when she nodded. "That's a beautiful car."

Helen grinned. "He managed to buy it all run-down when I was about… Twelve, I think? Spent years fixing it up, it was such a wreck. He managed to involve me and my sister in it. My mom used to have a heart attack when we got all covered in oil." 

John wasn't an idiot. He knew that in this world of billions of people, there were women who enjoyed cars. There had to be, because thinking otherwise was nonsensical. But none that had ever expressed an interest in him had. None had ever told him stories of her childhood working on a car and getting dirty in oil. 

But this just made this situation even worse. She was beautifully captivating, of course she was. Yet what was even better was that he found himself enjoying this conversation. 

He couldn't give in just because she knew about cars. 

He  _ couldn't _ . 

The rest of the drive was pleasant. Moving on from the topic of cars, he and Helen made small talk about their respective days - and for once, he didn't have to lie when she'd asked him what he'd done to keep himself busy. He'd slept in for the first time in months, a leisurely ten o'clock start as opposed to his usual six. And then he'd spent the day taking care of various chores; managing his wages both from Viggo and from independent contracts; tidying up messes left behind from past jobs. Namely bloodied shirts and weaponry he decided to simply describe as "an untidy apartment." 

And it seemed she'd had a pleasant birthday. Woken up to dozens of well wishes, had lunch and spent the afternoon with some friends. Yet another feeling of guilt twisted up in his gut at the thought of how many people Helen surrounded herself by; how many would mourn her should she fall prey to someone in his world. To  _ him _ . 

Once again he was reminded of how important it was that he rebuild a wall between them after tonight. No matter how brilliant or wonderful she might've seemed. 

"Do you mind if I ask you something, John?" she asked, and he dreaded whatever might come next. 

Still, he said: "Of course." 

"It's a bit personal so I really don't mind if you'd prefer not to answer," Helen said in a gentle, apologetic tone. "It's just been a little while since I've been on a date - what about you?" 

"It's been a while for me as well." he admitted honestly. Once or twice in the last few years, he had given in to the temptation of a woman's company but it had never meant anything. And then before that, he had wasted years on a hopeless cause only he'd been chasing. So he wasn't lying again, and it felt good to know all he had to tell was the truth. 

Helen let out a little breath and smiled at him. "Good," she said, and waved a hand, spoke in a rush, "Not good that we both have had pretty dull romance lives  _ but _ \- it's good that we're in the same boat, I mean." 

"I know what you meant, don't worry." 

And really, he was glad too. Whilst he certainly wasn’t inexperienced, he definitely wasn’t as apt at the art of seduction as many of his peers; it was a tool many often employed to take down targets in a stealthier manner. Not him, absolutely not. He’d tried, and more often than not, it had led to a bloodbath anyway. Besides, why ruin what was already a good strategy?

With some horror, he realised he was thinking about this with innocent, lovely Helen sitting beside him in his car. The more important thing was that their uninteresting social lives meant she hopefully wouldn’t mind if he blundered. But it was unlikely with how carefully he was watching himself. He couldn’t risk letting anything slip, that much was obvious; he might as well have been conscious of how he behaved otherwise. 

Subtly, he glanced sideways at her in the passenger seat. Yet no matter how secretive or sneaky he may have thought he had been, she still caught him; offered him a little smile before turning to look out of the window. 

_ You are a fool, John Wick _ . 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm [bubble-bones](https://bubble-bones.tumblr.com/) on tumblr!


	6. Wine

When John had saved Helen that evening from unwanted chit-chat, swept her up into his Bentley and not-so-subtly flashed the fact he'd be able to afford his dream car worth nearly half a million dollars - she'd Googled it - she was sure she couldn't get more impressed. Even as she eyed him up and appreciated how that famous bespoke suit fitted him so nicely - especially around those thighs, _hot damn_ \- and the warm, gingerly smile he'd shoot her way that had her heart fluttering. Both in her chest _and_ between her legs but that was something else entirely. 

That was until, at least, he smoothly reverse-parked into a slim parking spot she would've never risked. That wasn't the important thing, really, not when she took in the view once she'd stepped out of the car. He came around to open her door and offered her a hand like a perfect gentleman; she would've swooned all over again had she not been too entranced by the warm orange glow of the sunset dancing on the surface of the river only metres away. 

"You said you haven't done this whole dating thing in a while." she said in a skeptical tone, and he quirked a brow at her as he shut the door behind her. 

"I haven't." 

"Uh huh. So you just happen to know nice restaurants on the boardwalk with such a romantic view?" 

John's lips twitched, and he cast his eyes downward. It was becoming apparent rather quickly it was a habit - almost like he was ashamed of sharing his joy. It wasn't so much a shy gesture, more embarrassment. She liked how he looked all bashful, but she wasn't sure it suited a man like John. He was quiet and patient, yes, but he shouldn't have to restrain his positivity. 

Was this a side effect of being a "consultant" to men like Viggo?

The more he avoided telling her the truth she knew he was hiding, the more curious she got. 

"I'm a man who likes my research." John decided upon, and she rolled her eyes and accepted it. Once more he offered her his arm, and she gratefully looped hers around the inside crook of his elbow. The entrance wasn't too far a walk away, which she was grateful for - even if the view was lovely, it was cold and windy. Getting dark fast too. They climbed up the short set of stairs and he held the door open for her to step inside. 

It was beautiful in here; decorated in a sleek, modern style with fashionable reds, blacks and golds. The dim, warm lighting made it feel romantic and cosy, despite the - thankfully - wide breadth between each of the tables. To their immediate left when they entered was a long stretch of bar, far more impressive than any she'd ever tended. Well-stocked and decorated with pretty gold trims and a cool white glow beneath the bar top, behind the shelves. And then to their left was a podium where a polite-looking waiter greeted them. 

"Good evening, how can I help you?" he asked, and John didn't release her arm even as they stopped in front of him. He was warm, and his forearm felt so firm under her grip - she was secretly dreading the moment he actually let her go. 

"We have a reservation." 

"Of course. Name?" 

"Wick."

_Oh_ . It occurred to her only _now_ that she didn't know his surname, and she could not shake off one very simple thought: he suited that name. She wasn't sure why, or what about it was so fitting to his appearance. But the man beside her was John Wick and knowing that gave her a silly sense of joy. It was such a simple thing to know his name finally, but it felt almost like a belated, proper introduction. She squashed down the urge to say his name for herself, to see how it felt to say. 

"Yes, found it." said the waiter, nodding at the tablet atop the podium, "Please, make yourselves comfortable at the bar whilst I check your table is ready." 

John glanced down at her. "Would you like a drink?" 

"Yes, I'd like a drink, Mr. Wick." she said with a smile she couldn't hold back. It made him bemused too, and again, he cast aside his smile when it appeared. Hid it behind his free hand, in fact. She'd have to do something about that, eventually. But bringing it up tonight felt perhaps a little too much like jumping the gun. 

Another waiter kindly took her coat before they settled at the bar. Thankfully her purse conveniently had a strap - an inelegant, flimsy feeling strip of a thing, but at least it meant she could keep it on her and have it handy. 

John took her a little off guard when he leaned close to whisper in her ear. His tone was light, teasing, as he said, "Try not to judge him too harshly." 

The bartender - she nearly laughed, but managed to keep it to just a smile and rolled her eyes. 

"I put a substance into a glass and listen to people complain, I have _nothing_ on whatever mixing skills I'm about to see here." 

She was a little disappointed when he drew away again and settled onto a barstool of his own. Despite being so hard to place, and his ability to easily break her misconceptions about him, John was incredibly predictable when it came to his choice of drink; after she'd asked for a simple cider, John had kept it similarly easy. Bourbon, just like he'd ordered from her. She took a sip, and let herself take him in - wasn't shy about it either. And to his credit, he didn't flinch under her gaze. Simply maintained perfect contact until her eyes met his, after the slow roaming journey up to his face. He was waiting, as if for some sort of judgement. 

"Tell me, John," she began, setting her chin in her hand, "Do you ever wear any clothes that _aren't_ black?" 

His lips twitched and he cast his eyes downward. "Sometimes."

"White doesn't count." 

Again. "Then no. Does that bother you?" 

"Of course not. I like a man who's so comfortable with his wardrobe." she said with a smile, and John let out a soft snort of a laugh. His smile was so unfairly pretty - why did he instinctively try to hide it? "And I have to say," she continued; she'd already started with the flirting, why stop? "I had high expectations of this fancy suit or yours."

"And?"

"You met them - surpassed them, in fact." 

"I'm flattered." he chuckled, "I quite enjoy your outfit as well, Miss Moore. You look quite beautiful." 

There went the butterflies in her stomach. She teased him, though: "Only _quite_?" 

"Very." John immediately corrected. 

That was _wonderful_ . So far, any attempt at flirting with him had been deflected, dodged, or plain ignored. But now he was responding - and in like. Really, even despite the fact _he_ had invited _her_ to dinner, it was only now that she would really let herself hope that this would lead to anything. Like, really consider it. That they'd have a lovely dinner, enjoy each other's company. Maybe find their way back to her place or his - preferably not hers, she didn't want to face _that_ embarrassment. Would he let her touch him? She felt her cheeks warm at the thoughts in her mind, and immediately tried to derail that train. 

Helen would've been content to stare at his face for however long she could without it becoming awkward. But she instead found her eyes wandering - unfortunately not across him, but over his shoulder. Where, at first, she thought she saw a mirror. And then she realised if it _was_ a mirror, she'd see John's back. She'd see the same ivy green dress she'd worn, the same half-up, half-down curly updo she'd worn. Instead, her "reflection" was wearing a tight red dress that was far shorter than she'd ever wear. Bolder makeup, darker hair. 

"Oh my god," Helen whispered and buried her face in her hand. 

John seemed to physically tense beside her. "What?"

"My sister is here. I _cannot_ believe her, oh my god!" if she'd felt hot and embarrassed before, this was something else entirely. "I told her where we were going, she's so nosy! I'm so embarrassed - I'm sorry."

He eased up the tiniest bit, and offered her a smile. "Please don't apologise. There's nothing to be embarrassed about-" 

"She's coming over. Preemptively, I am _so_ sorry!" abruptly, she straightened up and turned in her chair and flicked a switch - tried her very hardest to appear surprised to see Evelyn approaching, and beamed at her. "Evie! Fancy seeing you here!" 

"Hels! Small world!" Evelyn giggled, as if neither of them knew she'd done this intentionally. Helen wasn't sure she appreciated the not-so-subtle way she was checking out her date; an assessment from bottom to top - from his fine leather shoes all the way up to his elegantly swept back hair. Except it wasn't as brief as it should've been. Took far too much time examining him to be a polite one-over. Helen wouldn't have been surprised to check her phone to see a grade and score for him later. 

"Evie, this is John. John, this is my sister, Evelyn." she introduced, feeling particularly bizarre about it as she went. It was _far_ too early to be stuck in this situation. She wanted to keep him to herself for a little while before introducing him to her family; they weren't even sure where they stood with each other yet and already Evelyn was shoving her nose into places it shouldn't have been. And if she kept looking at John like that, she wasn't sure if Evie wouldn't start tryna shove her nose in more unwanted places. 

"Nice to meet you. Helen told me all about you!" she said with a grin, and offered him her hand. _Oh, that bitch_ . An expert at stirring shit like it was a witch's cauldron. But John just rolled with the punches, and took her hand - Helen felt a flush of jealousy wash over her when he bowed his head to place a kiss against her knuckles. Completely and utterly unfair. He hadn't kissed _her_ hand yet and yet Evelyn got special treatment? 

"A pleasure. Happy birthday, by the way." he wished, and her smile only widened. 

"Thanks! I was born first, if you're curious. It was fun before we turned thirty and all of a sudden, our forties started looming over us." 

"Evie." 

"We should definitely go on a double date sometime. I'd love to learn more about you, John-" 

" _Evie_." 

"What? I'm just being friendly." she flashed an innocent smile in Helen’s direction, and it took every ounce of self-restraint not to just huff in annoyance. Her sister’s antics were never usually _this_ bad; she was free-spirited and incurably nosy, and for some bizarre, stupid reason, Helen had hoped Evie would be able to keep her curiosity to herself. She should’ve kept her mouth shut and just told one of her friends where she’d be instead of trusting Evie with this information. 

She was saved any further embarrassment when the waiter returned - apologised for interrupting, but Helen could’ve kissed him in thanks. If she didn’t already want to kiss someone else of course, but she’d be patient about that. 

"I'll leave you two to enjoy your night." Evelyn said with a beaming smile - shot a wink in Helen's direction. "It was nice meeting you, John. Good to see you, Hels." 

"Yeah, you're getting a scathing text later." she warned, and enjoyed the twitch of John's lips a little too much. 

"It was a pleasure meeting you too." he said politely, before offering Helen his arm. With a grateful smile she took it, and let him lead her away after the waiter. 

"God, I can't believe her." she breathed the second they were out of hearing range of the bar. The waiter led them to the far end of the restaurant, where a cosy table far away from any other patrons was sat just before a window. A wall of windows in fact, which showed off the gorgeous view of the river. Before they reached it, she squeezed his arm and decided now would be the last time she'd speak about Evelyn tonight - this was about them. "I'm sorry about her. She gets really excited when I'm seeing someone, but I didn't think she'd follow us."

"That's alright," he said, and genuinely didn't appear bothered at all. Most people would probably have been made very uncomfortable by the idea of being followed - God, it was _her_ sister and she felt squirmy. She was starting to think she hit the jackpot on patience. 

John pulled a chair out for her, and she had to try her hardest not to swoon as she settled down and he tucked her in to the table. He sat opposite her - and she couldn't miss the way he deftly unbuttoned his blazer to settle comfortably. Was he that proficient in removing all clothes? Or would he be hasty and eager? It didn't seem like his style to rush, really; slow and patient. Maybe a bit of a tease. 

_Fuck, Helen. Mind out of the gutter._

But she found her eyes trained on his hands as he took a menu out of the waiter's. She barely even realised she'd taken one as well - too busy finding herself jealous of _his_ menu, being handled in his grip. His hands were huge; strong, a little pale, but rough-looking on the undersides of his palms and fingers. Like he hadn't been born with a silver spoon up his ass like it might've seemed, like he had to work his way to where he was. And Helen loved that - almost as much as she was loving imagining those hands of his on her body. 

Her face felt hot by the time John called her name. She'd been caught - both staring and zoning out. 

"Sorry," she said quickly, sitting up, "What did you say?" 

John smiled at her. "I asked if you had a preference over red or white." 

"Oh." her cheeks flushed even deeper - such a simple question and she had _completely_ missed it. "I prefer red." 

"Then we'll have a bottle of the Querciabella, please. Carmartina." 

"Certainly, sir." 

Curious, Helen eyed the menu. She found the wines section and tried _not_ to choke on air when she found the price for a single glass of that wine, never mind an entire bottle. She wasn't sure if she'd ever had an entire meal worth that much. 

"Would you like to order now, or would you like some time to examine the menu?" 

Again, John looked at her. Wanting _her_ input before he made any decisions himself. A little flustered, she set the menu flat on the table and smiled apologetically at the waiter. 

"I'd like to have a little look, first." she said, and he bowed his head. 

"Of course. I'll be back to check on you in about five minutes." 

As soon as he walked away, Helen realised she was holding in a breath. She let it out, and John's expression shifted, a little - a tiny frown grew on his face. He was trying not to show it, but that much was obvious. 

"Are you alright?" he asked, in a soft and low tone. 

She nodded hastily, offered him a smile. "Yeah, sorry. Just… A little overwhelmed, is all. I've never been to a place this classy. Or this expensive, honestly." 

"Don't be concerned about the prices. Order whatever you like." 

Her gut twisted up at the idea. She was usually fine with it if a guy insisted on paying for the first date, but when the cheapest meal here was worth more than her entire weekly shop at the grocers, she wasn't sure she felt anything but guilt at the thought of him paying. 

"I…" she wet her lips, and hesitated. "It's a lot of money, John."

He shook his head. "Not to me. Please, I don't you to feel uncomfortable. I assure you, this is nothing - just knock a digit off the end if it makes you feel better." 

"Are you sure?" 

His lips twitched. " _Yes_. I promise to you, I can very easily afford this. And that isn't intended as a brag, either." 

She found herself smiling unconsciously too. "You don't need to brag, John." she said, "I'm already impressed." 

Any other man would've had their head puffed up like a balloon at the compliment. But John just smiled, and ducked his head - coy, almost. Bashful. Cutesy, shy traits that didn't fit a man with a face and body as attractive as his. Maybe he'd had strict parents, or had a hard upbringing. It was hard to train out such habits if he'd always been taught to hide his happiness. 

But it wasn't her place to judge. As far as John was concerned, this could just be a one-night thing for him. It wasn't her place to wish he'd share his smiles with her more - no matter how much she wanted it. 

Helen let out another breath and nodded. "Have you been here before?" 

"I'm familiar with the chain, but never to this particular spot." he replied immediately, clearly relieved the conversation had taken a turn away from her nerves. 

"Would you be able to recommend something for me? I don't really know where to start." 

"Of course. Are you a vegetarian? Got any allergies?" 

"No and not that I know of." 

"Peskaterian?" 

"No." 

"Do you feel like eating meat? Fish, maybe?" 

"I could go for some fish." 

John smiled at that. It felt like a bizarrely helpful game of twenty questions, and by the end of it, John had helped her navigate the maze of a menu to find a few dishes she could choose from. From there, with the vague and fanciful descriptions, she was ready to order when the waiter returned. Feeling a little more confident now, Helen turned back to John with a smile whilst the waiter poured their glasses. 

"You look like you want to say something, John." she observed. He was looking straight at her, a thoughtful look in his eyes, and when she noticed, he looked away. 

He waited until the waiter left them to speak up. "Can I ask you something?"

The potential open-endedness to that both excited her and frightened her. He could ask about literally anything and somehow, she'd feel like she'd want to answer. He could probably convince her to say any old nonsense if he looked at her with those lovely dark eyes. She'd always thought being flashed by baby blues was her weakness, but somehow John was doing wonders to undo her long-standing reasoning. 

"Sure." she decided on. Why not? 

John hesitated again. And then, finally, asked, "Why did you accept the commission from Viggo?" 

_Oh_ . Why oh why had she expected a question about _her_? The disappointment that settled in her gut twisted up with an ugly sort of anger. They'd been over this before, and she wasn't in the mood to spend this - as far as she knew - one evening they had together talking about their boss. 

"This again?" she huffed, and reached for her glass. The wine startled her - she'd forgotten how expensive the damn bottle was, because when she tasted it, it was a whole other class of what she was used to. It was rich and smooth, dark and fruity. She let herself only have a tiny sip before carefully setting the glass back down. It destroyed her facade, of course; of being angry and reaching for some excuse not to talk. But she'd rather not embarrass herself by showing off her poor self-control and guzzling the whole glass. 

"I don't mean to try to dissuade you again." he said, holding out an innocent hand. "I can't, I understand that. But I'd just like to know why." 

"Why is it so important, John?" 

"I'm only curious. You don't have to answer." 

Damn. But she wanted to - the look on his face was so evilly pleading even whilst he told her otherwise. She felt like she'd kicked a puppy. 

_His face should be illegal_ , she decided. No matter how silly it sounded. 

"Well, it's definitely no secret," she started with a sigh, "I'm not exactly rolling in cash. I take any jobs I can get." 

"You took it just for the money?" 

She wasn't sure she liked how that sounded. He seemed to realise it came across harsher than he might've meant, because he let out a little, "Ah, no, I meant-" before she cut him off. 

"Yes, John, I took it for the money." she felt like another sip of the wine, but suddenly felt strange reaching for something so expensive especially on this topic. 

"I'm sorry." he said, and she found herself blinking in surprise. That… That was a record for how fast a guy had apologised to her. She was so used to the men she'd dated only apologising after they realised they were getting the cold shoulder - _days_ later. "I didn't mean to offend you, Helen." 

Well, that took the wind out of her sails. Swallowing, she nodded, and accepted his apology. Wanting to move on from it quickly, she started talking again. 

"It's not like I don't enjoy the work, either." she said, running a finger up and down the slim crystal base of her wine glass. "This is the first commission in a long time where I've been able to actually use my skills."

"I take it classical styles are often taken for granted?" 

"You have _no_ idea." Helen sighed, "The amount of money I've spent over the years taking classes on extra courses just for a job is ridiculous. Do you know how many comic-style pop-art walls I've done in the last two years?" 

John raised a brow. "I feel like I'd either underestimate or wildly over." 

"No you wouldn't, because if you're anything like me, you think twelve is too many." 

He chuckled. _Hell yes_ , that was a victory. His laugh was to die for - a low little rumble, that he covered with the back of his hand. 

"So you accepted Viggo's commission because the work interested you?" he asked, and she definitely felt far better about how he'd phrased it this time. 

"Yeah. It's been so long since I've been allowed so much creative freedom on a job. Plus, I get to work in a style that's more mine."

"What drew you to the classical art style in the first place? I know you mentioned you've been something of an artist since you were young." 

Helen let out a little laugh. "Little Helen does not deserve to be called an artist, let me tell you that." while she tried to get herself lost in her thoughts and not his smile, she recalled a faint memory. "I was about four or five when my parents took me and Evelyn on vacation to Italy. It's so beautiful, there, far as I can remember, anyhow." 

"It is." he agreed, and she felt her brows raising. Why wasn't she surprised he'd been to Italy?

"Have you been recently?" 

"Visited… Four months ago now? Before I took the contract with Tarasov, I did a lot of… International work." 

Vague, avoiding giving too many details. It was par for the course, by now. John was so secretive about his job. 

"But you were about to tell a story," he prompted, expertly turning the conversation away from him again, "You went to Italy with your family?" 

"Oh," she cracked a smile and shook her head, "Wasn't so much a story. Just saying that the buildings I saw there sort of resonated with younger me. The art and the beauty of it all. Really, they had something going back in the Renaissance, there's something so delightful about the art of that period. It's… Dreamlike, you know? The technical foundation is there, it captures the form and understanding of reality, but there's such a whimsical feel about it. Something beautiful that only art can create, that doesn't exist in reality. Art's not just about capturing life perfectly, I think. Sure, that's skillful, but you have to add something to it, give it a purpose. Otherwise you've just made a copy of what's in front of you and- I'm babbling."

"No, no, I was quite enjoying it." John assured, and the smile on his lips was genuine. She felt her cheeks warm, realising just how long she'd been talking, and decided to stare at the table instead of his handsome face. 

"Enough about me." she decided, and sat upright - this chair was comfortable and plush. "I want to know more about you, John. We talk about my work all the time, can you not tell me a bit more about yours?" 

_That_ was toeing a line she knew already was testing. But she couldn't help herself - she felt like Eve with the forbidden fruit, or Pandora with her box. Just so close to finding out secrets she shouldn't have, because she couldn't just drop her curiosity. But those fables had terrible endings as a punishment for their insatiable desires; there was nothing wrong with wanting to know more about the man she was dating.

John hesitated before asking, "What, exactly? My job is quite complicated." 

She tried to dazzle him with a smile. "I'm sure I can keep up, John." 

But he didn't speak up again. He cast his eyes out to the window, where the sun was setting over the horizon and night would fall soon - they'd lose the beautiful view. But she didn't mind, because she had another across the table from her. A view that was looking pointedly conflicted, and somewhat uncomfortable. 

"Is…" she wet her lips and lowered her voice. "Is it dangerous?" 

It was vague enough that she wouldn't learn much, but a lot all at once. Not many jobs were considered risky, but from the way John had tried to warn her away from Viggo Tarasov, she _knew_ it had to be true. If Viggo was a dangerous man, so was John. Patient, gentlemanly, quite John. 

"Yes." he said, and she was shocked she got a response at all. Maybe she should've stopped there, changed the topic. But she couldn't help herself. 

"Is it illegal?" 

He opened his mouth and stopped abruptly. He tried to reconsider whatever was about to leave him, and to save him, the waiter arrived with their dishes. Helen sat back from where she'd unconsciously learned forwards, and smiled and thanked the waiter as he set plates down in front of the both of them. As if reading the room, and realising the tense silence that had fallen over them, the waiter all but bolted from the table. 

John didn't eat. She couldn't find her appetite either all of a sudden. Their meals looked delicious, high-class and fanciful, but she found her gaze roaming from the food to him; where his hand rested on the table besides where his cutlery sat untouched on a napkin. For only a second, she hesitated - and then reached across, settled her hand over his. Her fingers were tiny atop his. 

"I'm not about to judge you, John." she promised, and squeezed his hand, "It's not my place to. I have no right to condemn you for what you do. I'm only curious." 

"I know." he said, and looked down to their hands. To her delight, he turned his over underneath hers; wrapped his fingers around the back of hers, and squeezed ever so gently. "It… It's just a lot to talk about. I think it might be a bit heavy for a first date." 

She nodded, understandingly. "That's okay. I'll wait until you're ready to tell me." 

It was an offer. An unspoken, indirect one, but it was there nonetheless. She'd put herself out there and dangled the proposition of a future to him - one she could easily pull away if she needed to. But it was there and they both knew. 

"Thank you, Helen." he said softly, and then cleared his throat. He, regrettably, released her hand, and straightened up. "Should we eat?" 

"Let's." 

Their conversation turned on a slightly less serious note whilst they enjoyed their meal. He asked her curiously about Evelyn - and it led her into a rabbit hole about her family. Telling him about her parents and their siblings; and then the many cousins that came with that. John smiled at her while she spoke about them fondly, and it led her to her next question. 

"What about you, John? Any siblings?" 

He hesitated, and then shook his head. "No. Nor a family to speak of."

"Oh. Oh, I'm sorry." 

"No, it's alright. Please don't apologise." 

He told her of his childhood - a life as an orphan to unknown parents, raised on the streets and then later taken in at an orphanage. It… Surprised her. Surprised her more that he was willing to share it with her so soon, but definitely shocked her that a man as wealthy and proper as him had been a scrawny kid on the streets. 

"And… The Russian?" she asked curiously, "Was that just a thing they taught at your orphanage?" 

John smiled as he deftly screwed a piece of his steak with his fork. "No," he said, and hesitated putting it in his mouth to say, "Russian is my mother tongue." 

She almost choked. Masking her surprise behind a healthy swig of her wine, she managed to look composed again when John looked up at her. He was awaiting a reaction of some kind - thank God he'd missed _that_.

"Honestly, I would never have guessed." she admitted, and a faint smile appeared at his lips. "Really, you sound more American than me. Were you born here, or…?" 

"Belarus. Tiny country between Russia, Ukraine, Poland and Lithuania. I lived there until I was about eleven or twelve, if I remember right. And then the orphanage director decided to move us to the States - took most of the children, myself included." 

"Wow." she breathed, and he raised a brow. "No, I didn't mean anything bad by it. I'm just… Every time I think I have you figured out, you surprise me again. You're a very interesting person, John." 

That was the most unrestrained smile she'd gotten from him yet. A wide one, that made his eyes crinkle a little, but he only let her see it for a few seconds. Then he returned to his food, and made it fall. 

"So are you." he said, catching her off guard. She was mid-way through chewing a delicious piece of fish, cheeks full like a chipmunk. Hastily, she swallowed it down but felt the blush coming on anyway. 

"Thank you." she murmured, and scratched at the bridge of her nose in an attempt to hide her embarrassment behind her hand. It was a good sign though - one that had butterflies dancing around in her stomach. He found her _interesting_. He'd liked listening to her babble about her work. He'd asked a dozen questions and then a dozen more about her; responded in the like when she had questions for him. And she could only find herself absolutely delighted at the idea that this could go on for more than tonight; that they could see each other again. That he'd be interested in something more. 

Even after the plates were long since emptied, they continued to talk. John started her off again asking her about her personal artistic quests, and suddenly she found herself talking so long she emptied her glass of wine. The waiter refilled them both, and then they kept talking long enough to empty another pair between them. The sun had long since set and yet she didn't want to leave; she was enjoying his company far too much. His voice was lovely to listen to, and he engaged so well with any topic they stumbled their way onto. If she hadn't already fallen for him, she was about to throw herself on the floor. 

"Should we think about going soon?" she asked, even if she didn't want to. She was close to finishing her third glass, and she didn't want to embarrass herself. 

"Whenever you'd like to." John said with a soft smile, and she felt like she was going to melt into a puddle if he kept looking at her like that. 

They finished their glasses again, at least, and then John asked for the bill. She was glad he didn't show her it, because the price might've made her sick otherwise. And then suddenly they were leaving the table, collecting her coat from by the door, and it hit her that it was ending. She didn't want it to end. 

The walk to John's car was thankfully slow. She held onto his arm and found herself trying very hard to keep her eyes trained on the river, and not him beside her. 

He opened the passenger side door for her, offered her a hand to help her in. But she hesitated, and looked up at him. 

"It's late, and I'm not sure if I'd like to walk the rest of the way from where you picked me up," she began, and he seemed to realise where it was going as soon as she started, "Could you drive me home?" 

John hesitated, but then nodded. "Of course. Wherever you'd like." 

As she settled into the car, she somehow managed to restrain her wine-addled mind; to keep the "Let's go to your place, then," from tumbling from her lips. 

The ride was relaxed, and comfortable. She wasn't sure if it was the wine, or how much she'd learned about him that made her feel so safe with him. How? She'd known him for a total of a week, and tonight was the longest she'd managed to spend with him in one sitting. So how did she feel like she trusted him already? 

More importantly - why was she so content with the desire to drag him up to her apartment and tear his clothes off? 

Understandably, he was hot. That much was a given. _And_ she hadn't been opposed to the idea of a one-night stand; she'd done it before. But there was something deeper here that John was yet to share about himself and it should've frightened her. She couldn't find herself caring as she watched him drive; the way his legs would tense as he applied pressure to the gas or brakes, the tightness of those hands around the steering wheel. The curious, tiny twitch of his lips when he caught her staring. It didn't frighten her gaze away. 

When they arrived at the address she'd given for her apartment, John didn't say anything - no judgement, no questions. He released the wheel and she watched those hands settle on his thighs. _Fuck_ , she had to be careful not to drool. 

"John," she began, wetting her lips. Her throat felt dry. He looked at her attentively, and she felt like her heart was pounding before she'd even said it. "Do you… Do you wanna come up? Have a coffee?" 

They _both_ knew coffee wasn't the goal here. But her stomach twisted up when he looked away, stared at the dashboard for a moment. And when he looked back again, he looked conflicted. 

"I don't know if that's wise." he said, and she couldn't stop the wave of disappointment that crashed over her. But he looked apologetic; reached out for her hand, and she placed hers in his. "We should… Take our time, I think." 

That was reasonable. It was logical, and understandable. It was what she should've wanted to do - with a man like him, who in all respects was her Prince fucking Charming, she should've been glad he was saying no. But damn it, she wanted him so badly. And it wasn't just the wine talking, because she'd felt like this all night. Now, having her hopes for some action after years being dashed to shreds, she couldn't help but feel a little hurt at the rejection. 

And he realised it. "I'm sorry-" 

"No. No, don't apologise. You're right." she forced a smile on her lips and squeezed his hand in hers. "Thank you, John. I had a really nice night." 

"Me too." 

She went to pull her hand free of his, but his grip tightened all of a sudden and she hesitated. Turning back to him, she felt her heart jump - was he leaning towards her? Oh. Oh no, would this make it better or worse? Would she kiss him and be thankful for what she got? Or only want him more? 

But she want a fool. She wasn't about to miss out on this; so she leaned across the gap between their chairs and kissed him. Probably faster than he'd intended - or if at all. Maybe he would've hesitated again and reconsidered like he had all night. She felt his hand grasp around her arm - in such a tenderly gentle way - and the heat of his breath on her face. He was a slow and patient kisser, just like she'd expected. Far too hot and heavy for her current state of mind - this would definitely make things worse - but she couldn't stop. It was like heaven; his lips were rough against hers, and it felt almost like he was struggling to keep it contained. Like he wanted more just like she did. Like he was seconds away from running his hands down her body and slipping his tongue into her mouth. 

However, John had better self-restraint than her. She felt herself let out a soft sigh of disappointment when he drew away, and ran his hand down her arm to find her hand again. 

"Goodnight, Helen." he said softly, and she didn't want to say goodnight at all. He didn't either, she knew that. But he was right. 

"Goodnight, John." 

She collected herself and opened the door. Reluctantly, she slipped out of the warmth of the Bentley and closed the door behind her, making the lonely walk across the sidewalk to her apartment building's door. When the door opened up for her, she turned one final time to smile at him through the wound-down window of his car; gave him a little wave as he smiled at her. And then, reluctantly, she stepped inside and let the door shut behind her. 

Kissing him had absolutely been both the best thing she'd done all week, and the biggest mistake made in recent history. 


	7. Too good

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vague angst warning, but I promise, that 1) this is not the end and 2) things will be resolved! Eventually lmao

Keeping his affection for Helen under wraps was far more difficult than John had ever imagined. 

He had made a mistake - one that was simultaneously something he couldn't find himself to regret. That night with Helen, he could've very easily solved his problem. He could've thrown all caution to the wind and taken her hand; gone up with her to her apartment. Had her and moved on, forgotten, spared her the inevitable trouble he’d bring. And yet he simply  _ couldn't _ . The evening they'd spent together had shown him one very simple fact. 

And that fact was that he definitely liked Helen far too much. 

She was wonderful. Clever and sharp, while also being the sweetest woman he'd ever had the pleasure of spending time with. It was far more time than he deserved; truly, the brief interaction during office hours was really more than he deserved in the first place. But he had given into the sweet temptation and indulged in dinner with her - an evening which had made his years of loneliness feel like nothing. He could have made the mistake of taking even more than he should've, and somehow he'd found the restraint. Even after she had kissed him. Christ, she'd  _ kissed _ him - leaned across and steadied herself with a hand on his thigh, bolder than he would've ever given her credit for. Her lips had tasted so sweet, the faint ghost of wine. 

Quite how he'd managed to refuse her invitation was beyond him. Every ounce of his body was screaming at him to abandon his car and chase after her up to her apartment, but somehow some reason had overruled. 

Really, it was a good thing it had. Because now, he still had options. Now, he could still back out like a coward, he could still convince her that he wasn't worth the danger she'd be in for him. 

If he had slept with her, he wasn't sure he'd be able to let her go. 

So instead he faced a new form of torture. A special sort of hell on earth, that had him torn in two directions. One, to protect her; to go to Viggo's at any given opportunity to ensure no one had harmed her, to enter the office and find her lovely smile whilst she painted her masterpiece on the wall. And two, to avoid her. That damn smile was causing more problems than it had any right to - and he found himself worrying he was upsetting her by not returning it. But if Viggo or any of his goons were to see him smiling at her, it was over. They'd hurt her just to hurt him, anyone in the Underworld with half a brain would. 

But it would be over for her, too. In a way, it would be the same as simply killing her. She would be drawn into a world she didn't deserve to be punished by residing in - a world she'd blissfully spent nearly thirty years of her life unknowingly living on top of. 

And he didn't want to steal away her options. She could still leave, she could still decide she wanted better, like she should. If she became part of his world, he was her only protection. To be forced to be with him for mere survival… He couldn't do that to her. 

So really, he was wasting his time. He was wasting  _ hers _ , because he couldn't commit to what she wanted. Not when it was becoming harder to avoid her questions - mostly because he wanted to give her the world. She could've asked for anything with that smile and he'd find it. What was he doing then? Because John Wick never worked without a plan; right now, he had nothing. He was biding his time until… What? When? 

The worst part: he didn't even want to consider an end to it. 

It became something of a well-played, secretive game. He would leave things in the office for her in ways she would know to understand; a coffee behind her paint cans, mostly. He'd leave a morning text for her to wake to, just a simple and short one that she'd reply to with little x's. Sometimes he'd even be so daring to approach her in Viggo's office, but it had to be under three conditions. The first was that Viggo himself had to be elsewhere, an unfortunately rare occasion. Second, he needed to have a reason to be there - find out only after making the long and arduous journey there that Viggo was gone. And third, she needed to be out of her "zone." 

That was a rule she suggested he consider one night when they were having a pleasant text conversation. He'd asked, curious, and she replied with little laughing emojis before explaining. 

**Helen:**

_ My zone is what I call it when I'm like focused  _

_ Deep in my work you know? On a roll _

**John:**

_ I understand. I get it too.  _

**Helen:**

_ When you're offering advice to investors and dodging tax bullets?  _

At first he froze when his eyes glossed over the message. But no - he let out a breath of relief when he recalled her latest running joke. Since he had refused to give any further detail on his career choices, she had taken what information he  _ had  _ given and embellished it. Today, he was a mysterious and captivating fraudster risking life and limb for his client's financial success. Yesterday, he'd been even worse - a police officer. 

The irony hadn't been lost on him. 

**John:**

_ Tax bullets. Hilarious.  _

**Helen:**

_ Maybe in a past life I was a comedian _

And then she'd asked if it was alright to call him. He'd partially panicked - it had been a few days since their date, and they hadn't had a chance to speak in person. It felt like it had been far longer than that since he had heard her voice. 

But of course, he'd agreed. In what world would he say no? 

_ "Hey, John."  _ she greeted softly, and part of him contemplated taking the phone away from his ear to catch his breath. Hearing her so close was unfair - especially when she was so far away, across the city in fact. 

"Good evening, Helen." 

_ "God, you're so formal. You can loosen up with me a bit, you know."  _

"Sorry. I don't mean to be." 

_ "It's okay. What are you up to?"  _

He eyed the open manila folder in his hand. Slowly, he set it down on the desk cluttered with more of the same - research into the potential pile of contract sheets lying in the mouth of the printer. He probably should've been more organised with it. Once, he had been; but in the last few days he'd found himself caring less and less, and the office inside his apartment was becoming a little cluttered. 

"Reading." he decided upon, and turned the back of his chair to the desk. Almost as if he was afraid she could see something, like she wasn't only a voice through the cellphone. 

_ "Oh? Anything interesting?"  _

His eyes landed on the first novel on the shelf not far away. Shockingly, it was actually one of his favorites, so it wouldn't even be a lie to suggest he'd been busy on any given chapter before she called him. 

"The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde." he said simply, and got up to his feet. Helen made a little hum on the other end, and he wandered to the window. He gazed down over the city and wondered what her view was like; he hoped it was something a little more beautiful than the parallel block. 

_ "I read that in school, remember studying it for a little while in lit."  _ she said,  _ "Dr Jekyll represented good and Mr Hyde represented evil, if I remember right." _

"That's right. Though in reality things aren't that black and white." 

_ "Mm, but the duality of it is interesting. That a man so pure could be hiding so many terrible desires just below the surface and not even recognise himself in the mirror."  _

"Exactly why I find it fascinating." he admitted, "Jekyll believed he could find a way to cure impurities of mortality and in doing so, emphasised them. Gave them a voice and a vessel to project themselves. Obviously it's all very hyperbolic, but it's interesting to consider everyone has both within them."

_ "If this is your Dr Jekyll, I'd hate to see your Mr Hyde."  _ Helen laughed softly into the receiver, and John felt his blood go cold.  _ "Dr Jekyll was a great man - and you're even greater, John. If that was what that secret serum did to him, I couldn't imagine what it'd do to you."  _

"Thank you." he said even if it was a roundabout compliment - how she meant it, anyhow. How  _ he _ interpreted made him feel queasy, like he'd been punched in the gut. Perhaps bringing up such topics on moral greyness - its darkest blacks and purest whites - was a mistake. 

_ "Now that you've got my brain on the topic, _ " Helen continued like nothing was the matter. And to her, nothing  _ was _ wrong.  _ "It all reminds me of my favourite theme in my art - I don't know if Viggo's said anything, but the mural I'm painting for him? It's inspired by one of my old paintings, contrasting an angel and a demon. I adore the juxtaposition so much. That classic good versus evil argument intrigues me so much. Maybe I should read Jekyll and Hyde again." _

A moment passed. And then another, and by the time he realised he was meant to be having a conversation, Helen had already spoken up again. 

_ "John? You still there? Sorry, I didn't mean to ramble." _

"No, no, I'm the one who should apologise. It's been a long day, it was my fault for losing focus." 

She let out a soft laugh.  _ "You don't need to focus on me, John. If you're tired, you should get some rest."  _

"You weren't rambling, either." he added, as if she hadn't spoken. "I enjoy listening to you speak about your work. You're very passionate about it, I don't understand how anyone could be disinterested hearing you talk about it." 

_ "Aw, thanks, John. I promise to tell you more about tomorrow if you go and get some sleep. That sound like a deal?"  _

He felt his lips twitch. "It'll be a deal if instead, I offer you dinner tomorrow night." 

John was sure she didn't intend for him to hear the sharp intake of breath she made. Very quickly, she said:

_ "Yes. I'd love that. But could we do something a little more casual this time? Maybe we could go watch a movie, grab a bite after?"  _

When was the last time he'd went to a cinema? Too long ago to even try to recall. And he wasn't sure if he knew how to  _ do  _ casual; his understanding of romance came from both experience and research. His experience had taught him very little about a casual side to a relationship, especially when it had been hard to get either party invested in it. 

But for Helen, he was willing to try. 

"Whatever you'd like to do." he said, "Simply tell me when and where, and I'll be there. Or I can pick you up and drive you."

_ "Thanks, John. I'll have a little think and I'll text you tomorrow, or give you a call. That okay?"  _

"Perfect." 

_ "Then I'll speak to you tomorrow. Go and rest up, okay?"  _

"I will. Goodnight, Helen." 

" _ Goodnight, John. Sleep well."  _

Except he hadn't slept well. Or if at all. He couldn't stop thinking about what Helen had said - and how close to the truth she actually was with her joke. She would  _ hate  _ to see a dark side to him? If only she knew the truth. That all of him was dark; it was a practised talent to show only what he wanted. 

So he felt sort of uncomfortable the next day when he received a text from Helen discussing plans. He felt wrong, like he was deceiving her. Like even while he had been happy in Helen's company, it had been a lie; like the John she knew wasn't real. Because in truth, he wasn't. And slowly, piece by piece, she was going to figure it out. She was a smart woman. It would only be so long before something clicked, and then that would be the end. But by then, it couldn't end - because then she'd be in danger for knowing the real John Wick, and she'd need him. 

He resolved to tell Helen he couldn't make it. As he showered and then stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, he swore he was going to return to his bedroom, pick up his phone, and very apologetically weave some lie as to explain a reason why tonight would be impossible. He stood there so long that the droplets on his skin dried up, and he had counted the once-countless bruises on his body. There were five on his chest and abdomen; the worst being an ugly purple one that was settled just above a scar that was healing nicely. Then there were more, tiny yellow and brown ones on his arms, some on his legs. He was considered the best in the business, and he was glad he often wore full suits because otherwise, anyone would get the impression he wasn't quite deserving of his title considering his common injuries. 

But as he wandered to his wardrobe to find something to wear, he realised he was consciously choosing to look at the end of the rack he never went to; t-shirts and sweatpants, a few pairs of jeans. He hadn't worn anything so…  _ Normal _ in years. At the very least, he didn't make a habit of it. And when he caught himself staring at it, he tried once more in vain to convince himself that he  _ shouldn't _ . That really, he should've gotten dressed in a suit as usual and pursued a target. 

John was sure he was a man of excellent self-restraint. 

So how was it he found himself in his car driving to Helen's apartment that evening? 

When he made it there, he had one more choice. One more chance to shake his head and turn around. Instead, it was like his body had a mind of its own. 

**John:**

_ I'm outside.  _

**Helen:**

_ Ok! Be right down _

"I think I should go and get a concussion." he murmured to himself as he set his phone down, "Maybe I'd make smarter decisions then." 

He wound down the window when he saw Helen stepping out of her apartment building. She beamed at him, a beautifully wide and warm smile, and it didn't fade even as she settled beside him in the car. 

"An Audi this time, Mr. Wick?" she teased, settled her handbag between her feet. It was made of a white leather; or, at the very least, it was meant to be white once. Now it had faded to more of a cream, and it was scuffed in the bottom corners and around the handles. 

Before he could let himself get carried away with the thought of buying her a replacement as a gift, Helen started talking to him. She was asking him questions - about his day, about his preferences on a movie, on dinner. It was a slightly jarring experience, to say the least. Helen seemed to enjoy the movie they settled on, even reached out to take his hand and didn't release it for the remainder of it. But John left the cinema feeling like he had a gap in his memory - he hadn't paid attention to it in the slightest. The darkness of the room had made him so jumpy, so uncomfortable, that he'd kept an eye on the people around them the whole time. And if he noticed the shadow of someone walking up or down the aisles, he would instinctively want to reach for the knife strapped to his calf even if it was just another moviegoer with more popcorn. 

It took until dinner for Helen to realise he wasn't completely there. And he hated himself for it, because the dejected look on her face as she asked him if he was okay disappointed him far more than it could've her. 

"I'm sorry," he said, and reached for her hand across the table. That returned a smile to her lips, so it was worth the gamble he'd taken gathering the courage to touch her at all.

"Is everything alright?" she asked, ran her thumb over the back of his hand, "You're not sick are you?" 

"No, just thinking about work. Busy, lately." 

"Oh." 

_ That  _ was the wrong thing to say. He might not have been the greatest womaniser in the Underworld but even he knew admitting to a lady that his mind was elsewhere while spending time with her wasn't exactly ideal. 

"How did you spend your day?" he asked instead, prompting both a shift from him, and an excuse to listen to her voice.

"Would it be a shock if I told you it was spent painting?" she said with a wry smile, propping her chin up in her free hand. 

"It would be pretty unsurprising. What were you painting?" 

"You're not allowed to laugh." 

"I promise." 

"Okay so," Helen wriggled in her seat, sitting better upright in her chair, evidently excited to share. "Last night after our little chat, I picked up my sketchbook and started doodling. I ended up just coming up with some ideas. Woke up this morning, grabbed a paintbrush and just started painting." 

"And what did you come up with?" 

Her cheeks flushed, and she let out a little laugh. "I was actually inspired by you." 

His gut twisted up into a knot, and he assumed the worst. But he tried not to let it show. "Me?" 

"Yes. Well, I may or may not have taken your vibes and slapped them on a canvas for one of the figures in the painting." 

John couldn't stop a brow from quirking. "My  _ vibes?"  _

"You're quite an aesthetically-pleasing man, John. At least to me." she said, and smiled at him. John found it difficult to keep eye contact while she looked at him with such a warm and bright smile, so he instead cast his eyes down; to where her hand still rested in his on the table. No one had ever been so comfortable touching him, and so soon too. Instinctively, anyone who touched him shrunk back like their hand had passed over an open flame. But not Helen. 

"I've certainly never been flirted with in those terms before." he admitted, and Helen laughed again. She was so free with her joy - and he was glad to be the one to cause it. "But I'll admit; you're an aesthetically-pleasing woman." 

Her giggle then made him smile. Somehow, he felt more at ease again; even with his fears only growing worse by the hour. 

John was sure he had to end this soon. He  _ had  _ to, else a million different paths they could take would only ever lead to one result. Helen didn't deserve what he would do to her if he let her know his truth. Yet after they were done eating, and they took a short, rambling walk through city streets that were showing the first signs of Christmas decoration - even earlier than usual, this year - he couldn't find it in him to say something. To encourage the words out of his mouth, or to pry her fingers off his arm. She looked happy; and he felt it. For the first time in a long while, really. 

"Can I ask you something, John?" Helen spoke up, and he hesitated. So much so that she beamed at him, and added, "It's nothing deep. An easy one-word answer kinda question." 

"Alright." 

"How old are you?" 

_ Oh _ . He felt a little silly for being afraid to agree. "Thirty-nine." 

"Really?" 

She actually looked surprised. He rose a brow, couldn't help the smile that tugged at his lips. 

"Yes, why?" 

"I just…" she scratched at her neck, and shrugged, "You… Seem like a really eligible bachelor. Handsome, patient, soft-spoken. Not to mention loaded -  _ not  _ that that's the reason I'm seeing you." she added hastily, and he assured her he didn't take it seriously with a nod. "I'm only surprised no one has managed to snatch you up yet, to be honest." 

"And I can say the same for you." 

Helen stopped in her steps, and gave him an incredulous look. "John." 

"What? It's true - you're an attractive and intelligent woman."

Her cheeks turned a soft pink, and she rolled her eyes and continued walking by his side, shrugging as she sort of kicked her feet. 

"Most of my relationships have been disastrous. Longest one I've ever held was… Three years?" 

"My longest was five." 

Helen cocked her head at him, and he could tell she was curious. It was his turn to shrug, a dismissive reaction out of reflex. It wasn't often he had the opportunity to talk about it, nor did he want to. The only times she would be brought up in conversation was in passing with associates at the Continental - Winston, most of the time. He'd offer updates or rumours, like John would find it in himself to care. Almost as if Winston was hopeful that the burned bridge could be mended. 

Him and the rest of the Underworld. If ever she returned from Europe,  _ nothing  _ would go well for him for so long as she pleased. And if things didn't go well for John Wick, it was  _ everyone's  _ problem. 

"It was… Complicated." he said simply, "We were on and off a lot. Sometimes I was the problem, other times it was her. It seemed like it was going well for a while, but then suddenly she took off - decided she would put her career first and pursue it in Europe." 

"Do you think she's hoping to come back to you?" Helen asked, frowning as if she was afraid she would pose a problem. "Or do you think she's moved on?" 

"It doesn't matter what she wants. I spent too many years bending to her whims." John admitted - Christ, he'd never admitted that to  _ anyone _ . This wasn't exactly a favourite topic, nor did he really ever need or  _ want  _ to talk about this. But it wasn't wrong to describe their relationship like that, even if it made him feel guilty; she had been a woman who knew what she wanted, and expected it; and then like a switch she'd change her mind. 

Really, it had been good for them both when she disappeared. 

"I'm sorry, John." Helen said softly, and he felt himself frown at it. 

"For what?" he asked. 

"That it didn't work out. Or that it didn't cut out to be what you'd hoped for." 

For a moment, he didn't really know what to say. It was very rare that he received any sympathy, and even rare that he cared for it. But he felt… Grateful, because from Helen, it was genuine. The way she squeezed his arm and smiled just softly at him with that little frown, it felt natural. Like she had never had any reason to ever hide her feelings from anyone - like she could share them with anyone and not feel as if they could be exploited. 

She was too good for his world. 

He cleared his throat. "Helen, I-" 

"You don't seem concerned about how old I may or may not be." she chipped in with a grin, one that reached her eyes. 

Almost,  _ almost _ , he blurted out something foolish. Something that combined the hints her sister dropped and the information he definitely should not have known regarding her by any normal means. The information he had dug out of Continental records; he already knew she was thirty-seven. And it didn't bother him in the slightest. The only incident in which it would've had she been far younger or older, but she was neither. 

"You're right." was all he said, and she raised an eyebrow at him. 

"Really? You aren't even going to ask?" 

"I've been told it's rude to ask a lady her age." 

Helen snorted. She seemed alarmed by it, hastened to cover her mouth, and he saw the telltale signs of a blush peeking out from above her hand. 

"Ordinarily, yes." she giggled, struggling to compose herself, "It really doesn't bother you? I could be nearing sixty." 

"You  _ could _ , but you're not." 

"And how do you know? I could just look incredibly good for my age." 

He stopped, and she immediately halted with him. With a frown, she circled until she stood in front of him, and for a short moment, stared down at her feet. Then, back up to his face; even dressed down from the pretty dress she'd worn to their first date, and in comfortable clothes surprisingly void of the paint streaks he was used to, she looked wonderful. And she was wearing her hair loose. Long, bouncy curls that fell over her shoulders. The brown hue of it almost perfectly matched her eyes. 

"How old are you?" he asked, straight-faced. If she was so insistent on it, then he would fold. 

Helen smiled. "Don't you know it's rude to ask a lady her age?" 

"Helen…" 

She laughed, patting at his arm. "I'm sorry, I couldn't resist. I'm thirty-seven." 

_ I know.  _ Just like he knew the names of her parents, the school she had attended. The amount of debt she still owed for her degree. And he hated that he already knew - it was information she hadn't chosen to share. And it was information that was simply… There. For him to see, for anyone at Continental to see. He felt a heavy, uncomfortable guilt settle in his stomach for knowing what he did, when she hadn't been ready to share it on her own terms. 

"And… No reaction." she murmured, frowning at his blank expression. 

His lips twitched. "Was I supposed to have one?" 

"I don't know. You really aren't like most guys, John, maybe I was just looking in the wrong places." 

She reached out for his hand, and when he offered it, she tugged him after her along the next street. Eventually she fell into step beside him, and let out a soft, thoughtful hum. 

"I'm still waiting." she said. 

"For?" 

"For you to turn out to be a vampire or something." she joked, "Or to howl at the moon and turn into a dog. There's gotta be something - I don't have luck with romance, and you're too good. Do you pick your nose and eat what comes out?" 

"I…" he didn't even know where to start with  _ that.  _ But the look of disgust on his face was enough to set her off cackling, so he couldn't help the smile of his own. "No, I definitely do not." 

Still, the fact that she was prompting it was worrying all on its own. It really was only a matter of time until she got impatient, began asking the important questions - the answers to which he couldn't tell her. But they could only play this game for so long. Helen wouldn't be content to stay in the dark forever. 

Yet it he told her, she would be. 

"Helen, I need to talk to you." he said suddenly, and she halted; a sharp look of concern twisted onto her face. He let out a breath, "Let's go back to the car."

"I… Alright." 

Christ. He didn't want to do this; he thought maybe he could keep it up for a while longer. But he couldn't be cruel. Not even to his targets, nor his enemies, did he leave them to suffer - always offered a quick and clean death. He couldn't keep dragging this out only to hurt her later. Especially not when he was being so selfish. 

Even still, he held her hand as they found they way back to where he had parked the Audi, and opened the door for her. She smiled at him in thanks, but it wasn't a proper one; there was a hesitance about it, an apprehension. And he understood it. He felt uneasy too, knowing what he had to do. 

"What's wrong, John?" she asked as soon as he rounded the car, and settled into the driver's seat beside her.

There was no use in delaying it. He should do it swiftly, in one swipe. Like tearing off a band aid, over in a flash. 

"We shouldn't keep seeing each other." 

She didn't have an instant reaction. Not one aloud, anyhow - and when he dared to look at her, she was staring out of the windscreen at the brick wall they were parked against. He couldn't read what she was feeling, but he could make a few guesses. Disappointment was first and foremost, much like himself. Regret, some guilt. But it wasn't her fault, even if she thought it might've been. 

"I thought things were going well, personally." she came out with, and he noticed the firm set of her jaw - like she was holding back frustration. "Why did you suddenly change your mind?" 

"I- It wasn't sudden. I've been thinking it from the start." 

Helen scoffed. "So were you planning on telling me your wise judgement  _ before  _ I fell head over heels, or were you just going to keep it to yourself and laugh at me when I looked stupid for being hopeful?" 

"Helen-" 

"No, John. Don't do all that soft  _ Helen  _ bullshit. You can't be the sweetest guy I've ever met and then one-eighty to a stranger again." she blinked over wide eyes and rubbed at her forehead. "Christ. And I almost slept with you on the first date."

"I'm sorry." he offered, though it felt hollow in comparison to how he really felt - disappointed didn't cover it. He was furious with himself for letting it happen in the first place. For giving into the smallest of temptation and making a hole into a gaping canyon; it would've been far easier to school himself over any desire than walk down the path that had led him here. 

But somehow he couldn't find it in him to regret the time he'd spent with her. 

"I don't get it." she murmured, turning to look at him, "What was it for? Do you get a kick out of wooing poor women and letting them enjoy your company and wealth for a few days? Toss them out when you're bored?" 

"No, not at all. It was never my intention to make a showcase of my money, nor shame you. I genuinely have an interest in you as a person." 

"Then why, John?" 

John sighed. He ran a hand over his mouth, squeezing the other around the wheel. When he didn't say anything, Helen let out a sigh of her own. 

"It's not because of your mysterious job or whatever, is it?" she asked suddenly, and he tried not to react. Because of course she couldn't have stayed angry at  _ him  _ as the sole reason - she had to be smarter, to figure it out faster than he could've covered it with a lie. If she had stayed mad at him, would it have made it easier for her to forget him? 

"No." he said, but even  _ he  _ wouldn't have believed it if he heard it. 

"So it's dangerous, you've told me that. And from the fact you didn't answer me the other night, I'm gonna take a wild guess and say it's not legal, either." she began rambling, at a pace quicker than he was ready for. "Why does that stop you from dating? And why me? Do you-" 

" _ Don't  _ start guessing." John said firmly. How many wrong answers would it take to find the correct one? How horrified would she be if she landed on the truth? 

"But that's the reason?" she pressed, "Not because of me?" 

"It's definitely not because of you." he assured, and sighed as he let himself take her in. She was doing well to keep herself together, but he wasn't sure if she let it out, if she'd punch him or just get out of the car and walk. "I don't often feel regret in what I do - but I feel it now, looking at you. I'd have you in an instant if I wouldn't put you in danger." 

It felt good to admit it. To finally lay it out for her, to have her know what he did to risk her simply by sitting beside her. And how much worse it could get if he were to let himself are any deeper than he already did. What sort of man would he become if someone - and they  _ would  _ eventually - threatened the woman he loved? He couldn't take that risk. Wouldn't. 

Not her. 

"I'm not afraid, John." she whispered, and let out a breath - it sounded shaky. "Just… Why don't you tell me what you do? Why it would be so dangerous?" 

"I  _ can't _ , Helen. Just knowing would put you in harm's way." 

"I want this to work. You're fighting me at every turn." 

" _ Please _ ." 

Helen slowly sank down into her chair. He watched her swallow, blink a few times rapidly. 

"So that's it, then?" she asked, "This is how we end? Before we can even start?" 

He didn't know what else to say. Nothing else but, "I'm sorry." 

"Just… Take me home, John." 

She didn't speak to him the entire drive to her apartment. Nor did he blame her, in any way. But it did little to settle the unease in his gut; he was fighting every urge to pull over and tell her he had changed his mind. To say to hell with it all, to ask again if she was certain she wanted to know. To go down that path he had forbidden for himself - to tell her his dark secrets and find her still looking at him with that smile. Tell him that she wanted it to work even still. 

Yet he didn't. The only time he stopped was when he parked outside her apartment building, and found it impossible to let go of the gearstick - or else he might've reached for her. 

"I was really hopeful for this, you know." she murmured, forehead against the glass. "I looked at you and thought,  _ hey, maybe this is it. This is my happy ever after _ . Really, I don't know why I'm still so gullible." 

"Helen…" he began, but he didn't know what he wanted to say. Well, he knew what he  _ wanted  _ to say, but it wasn't what he should've said. Instead he just found himself staring at her hopelessly. But before he could say anything to change the impasse they were at, she sat up and unbuckled her seat belt. 

"Well, thanks, John." she said after clearing her throat, but she didn't look at him. She collected her handbag from between her feet - that scuffed, off-white, old thing. Held it between her hands covered up to the fingers in the sleeves of an old woolen cardigan under a coat with holes in the pockets. He knew because her pen was still sat on his desk at home; the pale, baby blue one, printed with daisies. 

"Thank you too." he managed, "I enjoyed your company." 

"Yeah." she murmured, and reached for the door handle. "I enjoyed yours." 

And then Helen stepped out out of his car and onto the cold street. Before she shut the door, she hesitated one last time, and finally, looked at him. 

"Goodbye, John." 

"Goodbye, Helen." 

She shut the door with a faint thud, and crossed the sidewalk to the building. Unlike the last time he had left her here, she didn't look back. She closed the door, and disappeared inside - hopes as crushed as he felt by guilt. 

John swore that that would be the last time he saw Helen Moore. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're curious, to encourage the vibes of the later half of the chapter, I listened to sad John Wick ost - specifically the track "Missing Helen." No, the irony is not lost on me either.
> 
> I'm [bubble-bones](https://bubble-bones.tumblr.com/) on tumblr!


	8. Paint

It was going pretty well, all things considered. So long as one only considered "all things" consisting only of John avoiding the office like it was plagued. And really, if that was the only goal worth considering, then he was doing spectacularly. 

If one allowed other things to be considered - things like the weight in his chest and the sudden realisation of the loneliness of his reality - then he was not doing as well as he would've liked. Helen had blitzed her way into his life by chance and now that she was suddenly no longer in it, even if by _his_ choice, he was beginning to realise how truly quite sad his existence was. It always had been, really; selected to be molded into the perfect killing weapon amongst his peers, and even when he had rebelled against the monsters that had made him, what did he do? Fall back into their world at the first sign of freedom as a young man, with promising prospects for a career in the armed forces. He turned his back on it in favour of trading his soul for fortune, because he was _good_ at it. It was all he knew, all he was used to. So now he spent his days hunting for the heads of men and women for the sake of good business practices. 

And for what? He would turn forty next year and what exactly had he accomplished in that time? Certainly, he'd achieved a common goal for a lot of people, and amassed more wealth than most ever could. But really, he didn't even care that much for the money. It allowed him to live in comfort, yes, and afford the sorts of things a young Jardani Jovonovich could only dream of. But now John Wick spent his evenings ending lives or sitting on an empty couch in an empty apartment, staring out at the city view or ignoring the sounds of a television. He had never wanted a happy ending because men like him didn't deserve one - he had no right to desire anything good and pure. Everything Helen was. 

Once upon a time, he thought he could have attained something worthwhile. The mythical promise of happiness had laid just on the horizon - so close, just a little out of reach. And the worst part was, he had _wanted_ it. It had been so tantalizingly close, and when one day he woke to see it and _her_ gone together, he decided perhaps he would give up entirely on it. On that distant promise of love and the happiness that came with it. 

So why was he now having these thoughts? These regrets? Wishing things could be different so that he might've had that chance to hunt down that happiness - that was where he found himself. Wishing for a reality that could never come to pass. How amusing it would appear to anyone in his world. 

But it had to be this way. Helen would finish her commission for Viggo within the week, maybe two, and she would be gone. She would take her well-earned money and move on, continue to devote her heart and soul to her craft; create works of beauty to match her skill. And she would forget about him - forget about John Wick, her almost-mistake. One that would've never let her forget it. 

He could stay away long enough for it to come to pass. Or, at least, that's what he would've hoped for, had he not received a message from Viggo that morning. 

**Tarasov:**

_Office, 11. Important._

Of _course_ Viggo would find a way to throw a complication in the path of his plans. The worst part of it was the way his gut twisted at the implication - it could mean any number of things, but his mind leapt immediately to Helen. He could only hope whatever this important matter was was as unrelated as every other matter they had discussed in front of her. 

He arrived at the office building five minutes early. For a moment, he considered wasting time outside, simply to avoid crossing paths with Helen. He wasn't sure how she would react to seeing his face again, but he knew himself that his firm resolve would crumble if he were to see her. He’d convince himself he was allowed this - that he was as entitled as anyone to some form of happiness. So, he reminded himself of what was at stake, and got into the elevator. 

She was there, of course she was. Minding her own business, busy at work painting her mural - it was coming together now, as two opposing silhouettes of dark and light clashed from either end of the wall. It reminded him far too much of their talks; and once more he was reminded of why it was so important to stay away from her. She had only seen the face of the angel she was painting, and never the demon on the other side that as of yet, wore a mask of undefined blacks.

Viggo was behind his desk - with him stood nearby were two men he was familiar with. Ivan, a thick-headed brute who was currently offering his clearly unnecessary opinion on whatever matter was being discussed, for Viggo was staring off with an unimpressed scowl. And the other had no understanding of what was even being said because he spoke exclusively English despite working with a Russian mob for the better half of five years - Avi, Viggo’s first port of call for counsel. Also the first man to be informed if shit were to hit the fan, which it didn’t, very often. But the presence of all three - including John - in the same room would imply otherwise.

“John.” said Tarasov the second he saw him. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Helen flinch, but otherwise kept her focus on her work. 

_“Wick - your little girlfriend is a pain in my ass.”_ spat Ivan, and instinctively, John trained his expression to shared _nothing_. No one knew about what had happened between him and Helen, he had made sure of that - nor had she given Ivan any reason to dislike her. 

_“What Ivan means to say is that we have a problem.”_ Viggo explained in a calmer, albeit still tight tone. He ran a hand over his mouth and sighed, _“My brother is dead.”_

John couldn’t help his surprise. _“What?”_

_“He was found this morning in his own bed. I spoke with Continental, and there were no hits on his head. Someone killed him for no reason other than personal spite - so I assumed, of course, that it was an attack on my family. On me.”_

Well, if the goal was to disrupt Viggo, taking out his brother was certainly a good step in the right direction. Abram had been - up until his untimely demise sometime in the night - successfully running the front of a chop shop on Viggo’s behalf for many years. In reality he was a smuggler, and a good one. Excellent at pushing merchandise between illegal borders and even better at earning a tidy profit from its successful sale. And now that he was gone, it was definitely an effective manner in which to disrupt Viggo’s flow of trade. 

And he was sure, somewhere in Viggo’s heart, he had it in him to mourn for the loss of his brother. It wasn’t just an attack on his business; it was personal.

_“What do you want me to do about it, exactly?”_ John asked, raising a brow. 

_“We have already found out who exactly wanted my brother said - and who committed the deed.”_ Viggo said with a firm-set gaze; but seemed to hesitate. Like he was wondering whether the foolish thing to do would be to say it at all. _“Abram’s killer was none other than Irina Volkava.”_

John felt his blood run cold. But that was impossible - she was chasing prey in Europe, just like she said she would for the rest of her days. She’d _promised_ to stay away from him, and meant it because she had no desire to see his face again. And now she was back in New York? After eight long years? 

Of course, her first instinct was to exploit the biggest potential problem she could find for his employer.

_“Are you sure it’s her?”_ he needed to be absolutely certain. He had to be.

_“Come, and I will show you.”_ Viggo rose from his desk chair, grabbed for his coat from the back of it and the hat from atop the desk, _“You know how she kills better than anyone - your word will guarantee it is her work.”_

All of a sudden, Helen was no longer a concern, and he hated himself for it. Not because the potential return of Irina could mean anything for him in any way but negatively. But because suddenly Irina was a problem, like finding a new bleeding wound right after bandaging the last. If it really was her, then already she was making strides in making him suffer for the simple desire of _wanting_ to; he truly wasn’t surprised her first decision would be to cause damage to the Tarasov Mob after hearing of his ties. 

Still, even as he left the office, he felt uncomfortable when he remembered Helen would be here alone. Alone with the handful of Viggo’s goons out in the lobby, only metres away. She would be such an easy target. Easily overpowered, easily hurt. It made him sick to the stomach to think about, so he tried to organise a priority list in his mind. To remember what was at stake if Irina Volkava had really returned to New York - the destruction she would cause if left to run unchecked. To what she would do to Helen if she knew about her. 

He shuddered to think about it. Irina could hurt Helen in ways he didn’t even know about if she so desired. 

The drive to Abram’s home was uncomfortable, to say the least. Normally it wouldn’t bother him, the awkward silence between him and Viggo in the back of the car, whilst Ivan drove and Avi was busily shuffling through papers from a leather folder in his lap. But he found himself recognising the tenseness in the air and disliking it - not that he necessarily wanted a relaxing atmosphere in Viggo’s company, because he did not. He had never wanted to be Viggo’s friend and that wasn’t about to change. However, the fact that he noticed it at all was telling; that one, perhaps Helen had had a bigger influence on him than he thought; or two, he was far more bothered by the implication of Irina’s return than she ought to have any right over him. 

It was the typical scene when they arrived at Abram’s - no sign of a police car anywhere in sight. Just a collection of black vehicles parked in front of his apartment building, which they joined. Viggo led him inside without meeting any resistance by staff, and when they reached the penthouse floor, it was clear completely of other people. 

“Come.” said Viggo, and he led him down the wide hallway to where Abram’s bedroom waited at the end; wordlessly, he pushed open the door, and went inside. John followed, and the smell of death wasn’t pungent just yet - just repulsive enough to be noticeable the moment he stepped inside. 

Abram’s corpse lay in the bed still. Undisturbed, lying on his back, one hand tucked behind his bed under a pillow, the other over his stomach holding the covers up. Rigor mortis meant those sheets were tight in his grasp, but John wouldn’t need to look under them to find the cause of death - above the agape look of horror on the man’s face, in the centre of his forehead, was a bullethole. John approached, and took a closer look, ignoring the smell. A clean entry, implying a shot from point blank. Most likely done with a silencer. Yet the most bizarre thing of all was that _nothing_ else was disturbed. There was no sign of struggle, no disruption to any of Abram’s belongings or furniture. 

True, sneaking in, taking a silent kill, and leaving no trace was Irina’s style. But that didn’t mean it _had_ to be her. 

Viggo seemed to sense his apprehension, for he held up a hand before John could pass judgement. From the bedside table, he retrieved something - a small card folded in half, to which he handed to John across the bed. With a short sigh, John flattened it in his hands. Written in a hasty but neat, familiar cursive, were three small words:

_missed me, jardi?_

“Excellent investigative work.” John murmured, folding the card over once more. Then, he tore it in two pieces. “Lighter?”

He frowned at him, but still offered the small silver zippo from his pocket, engraved with some nonsense John didn’t bother to read. Stepping back out into the penthouse, he located the kitchen, and without hesitation, tossed the card into the bone-dry sink and lit it aflame. 

“So you see now why we have a problem.” said Viggo, as he joined him in the open-plan living space of the penthouse. With a sigh, he travelled to the wide wall of windows, and held his hat against his chest. “Or, better phrased: _you_ have a problem.”

“ _Do_ I?” he replied sharply, trying to ignore the satisfaction of watching the card curl under the flames. “It was _your_ brother that was murdered.”

“By _your_ Promised.”

John scoffed. “What Irina does is none of my business. I hold no responsibility for what happened here.”

“No, John! I believe you do.” Viggo snapped sharply, and turned over his shoulder to catch his gaze. “This kill was unwarranted and as such, undeserved. It requires one in turn.”

“So you’ll kill me? I welcome you to try.”

“Heavens no, I’m not a fool. Though I appreciate the kind invitation, John.” 

Wordlessly, John turned on the faucet, and let the flames die down. Very little remained of the card, so he left it to rot in the basin and joined Viggo at the window. For a short while, they silently stood side by side, and started out over the view. He wondered just what Viggo had in mind - and if he’d ever decide the next painfully long second would be the one where he’d share. 

“I want her dead.”

Of course he did. There was only one thing that John Wick was good at - and yet for once, it posed a problem. Many, in fact. Firstly:

“You know I can’t.” he said simply, sighing as a gentle pitter patter of rain began falling against the window. “It’s as binding as Continental law - she dies by my hand and I should consider myself as dead as her.”

“You truly fear your clan’s word that much?”

“I didn’t spend the last twenty years being free of them just to be dragged back to be sacrificed as tradition demands, Viggo.”

It was Tarasov’s turn to sigh. He lit a cigar, and narrowed his eyes at a building on the skyline. 

“Besides, you forget one important thing,” John continued, and he so hated discussing this second point - because it would be to admit a weakness. “We were designed as the perfect partners. I couldn’t stand a chance at killing her.”

“Couldn’t?” he echoed, “Or _wouldn’t_?”

“Both. I cannot kill Irina Volkava, Viggo.”

“Then I will open a contract.” he decided, and John had to fight the urge to imply it was a bad idea - it _wasn’t,_ only his misplaced loyalty twisted to guilt at the thought. Irina didn’t deserve any defence he could give, or any reason he might come up with as to why she shouldn’t be spared a contract. Really, what was she playing at? Returning for the first time in years and going after one of the biggest families in the game? And with no cause at that but personal pettiness. What was she expecting to happen? 

But he couldn’t settle his curiosity. “How much?”

“Five hundred.”

His lips twitched. “She won’t enjoy being worth such a low price tag.”

“I will raise it if needs be.”

John removed his hands from his pockets, and glanced once more towards the bedroom at the end of the hall - the room in which Irina had been only hours ago. He could’ve mapped her journey in here; the ways she blended and lied her way past security, if not simply snuck and struck where necessary. Most likely tiptoed her way through, so light on her feet not even he would’ve heard her coming. Deactivated alarms and cameras so that no one saw a trace of her, even if she intended to reveal exactly who she was via the note - would eliminate any other references to her presence simply to show she could. She liked to do that; subtly brag of her skills and her talents. She wouldn’t have killed Abram right away, either. She would’ve waited until he woke up and felt the gun pressed to his brow, leaving him with only seconds to make peace with any gods he might’ve worshipped before he met them. It would explain the stiff look of shock on his face, even whilst the rest of his body remained undisturbed. 

Oh, Irina. The trouble she had caused within what he could assume had only been days of her return - what was she thinking? 

Why hadn’t she just stayed in Europe?

**▂▃▅▇█▒▒█▇▅▃▂**

No amount of upbeat pop songs could make Helen feel any better about this situation. 

Some part of her had foolishly hoped John would avoid her - go to even greater lengths than before to not see her. She didn’t want to see him, or else she’d get frustrated and hurt all over again. She couldn’t _believe_ she’d let herself get excited about anything with him, because he’d strung her along only a few days before dumping her unceremoniously and trampling all over any future she could’ve pictured. Maybe, she could be grateful it had only lasted such a short period of time. 

Still, she was an adult. So was he - and the unfortunate reality was that they both worked for the same man. It was inevitable that they would be forced to cross paths eventually, she only wished it wouldn’t be so soon. Maybe if she had a week to get over him, she’d be at least non-confrontational with him. But thankfully, when he entered Viggo’s office that morning, he acted as if she wasn’t even in the room. Spoke solely to the man behind the desk and the two others with him; at varying points, he even sounded stressed. Alarmed, taken by surprise. However, of course she didn’t understand a single word, because they were speaking in Russian. She really hated how much she enjoyed hearing him speak in his mother tongue, because there was just something about it that did wonders to make the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. 

_Pull yourself together, Helen. He doesn’t care._

When the group of men left the office without so much as glancing in her direction, she expected them to return within the hour, perhaps. Or at the very least, at some point in the afternoon. She went out for lunch and when she came back, she still had the office all to herself. Still, she didn't question it; she put her earphones back in and enjoyed the therapeutic process of painting. She had noticed she'd tried to rush a decent amount this morning, as if she could speed up the process. To finish the job and leave this place - and John - behind. 

But there was no rushing it. She couldn't botch this job - even if Viggo was satisfied, she wouldn't be, and she wouldn't ever be able to forget how a silly crush had scared her away from completing a piece to its highest possible standard. 

Fall was well underway now, and soon the depths of winter would come - so when the sky started to darken, she didn't think twice about it. It wouldn't be the first time she'd left after the sun set, nor the last. If John wasn't going to return to the office for the rest of the day, she'd take advantage of that, and make as much progress as she could undisturbed. She was doing an expert job of focusing, and minding her own business, when she heard a loud crash outside the door. 

Out of reflex, she almost got up and went straight to see if anyone was hurt. But something in her gut made her hesitate; the same sort of unease that she'd felt when John had warned her against Viggo in the first place. The uncomfortable sort of instinctive feeling that she _knew_ he was right, but it was illogical to believe it without any hard truths. So instead, she listened to that feeling this time. She pulled out an earphone and waited, and when no more sudden noises came, she slowly approached the door. It was left partially cracked open from where she had visited the bathroom a few hours ago, and with a growing discomfort that gnawed at her bones, she peered through the gap. 

There was a man. Two, in fact, but they were too preoccupied by something slumped against the opposite wall - a third man, who the two were trying to speak some sense into. And she could see why; he'd smashed one of Viggo's vases off the side table in the hallway, and Viggo didn't exactly seem like the forgiving type for destruction of his art collection. The man stumbled and fell into his friends, and Helen somehow kept her sigh to herself. What sort of fool would turn up to his employer's workspace so drunk? 

Except, he didn't… Seem drunk. There was a bizarre weightiness that he threw around, but it didn't seem like the same slow tardiness that a drunk would exhibit. No, he appeared sluggish and slow, and his pals spoke to him in hushed, hurried whispers, in of course a language she couldn't understand. 

Footsteps approached, and Helen jumped. Viggo? She'd assumed he wouldn't come back again, given the state of his schedule today. And yet there he was, flanked by one of the men from earlier; the taller, burlier one. Intimidating and fierce, who spoke in gruff, short tones. 

"What are you fools doing? Get out of my way." snapped Tarasov - in a far worse mood than she was certain she'd ever seen. 

"B-But Mister Tarasov, sir, we didn't know where else to go!" one of the men stuttered, raising shaky hands in peace. It was only then that Helen realised he had paint on his hands. No, not _paint_. Was far too runny for that. 

Blood? 

Helen felt her own run cold, and she pressed a hand to her mouth to smother the breath she inhaled. There was always a logical explanation she'd told herself while working here. Things _couldn't_ be as they seemed because that would be… That would be terrible. Her assumptions couldn't be right, because that would make Viggo a terrible man. And that would make working for him wrong, and stupid, and she had been warned against it from the start. 

Worst of all, it would prove John right. 

But she wasn't sure if that lie would convince herself again. What logical explanation could explain this? The boy fell over hard enough to bleed from the gaping wound Helen now noticed in his stomach; the same blood that got all over his friends' hands. There _was_ no logical explanation, and Helen couldn't delude herself anymore. Somehow, she had gotten involved with dangerous people. She thought that if she admitted it, maybe she'd feel better about the situation, but if anything, the bundle of nerves in her stomach just got bigger. _Fuck_ , she needed to get out of here. 

"What did you bring him here for, you idiots? What am I supposed to do?" Viggo growled, and waved his hands dismissively at the trio. But one the boys grabbed his arm, stopped him on his march to the office door and Helen was glad, because she was sure her feet had been glued to the floor. "Remember your place, boy. Release me." 

"Sir, it was… it was _her."_

For a horrifying minute, Helen thought he was talking about her. Thinking maybe to blame. The situation on her, a scapegoat like every innocent person wrapped up in a crime drama. But when Viggo took in a sharp breath, and turned to stare not at the office door where she was still hidden. Instead, he looked at the injured man - he couldn't have been more than a few years over twenty, if that. So baby-faced and scrawny, hunched over in pain. 

"What did she say?" he asked hurriedly, "Tell me, boy, what did she say?" 

The poor lad spluttered, and some blood trickled over his chin. What was Viggo doing? He'd bleed out! He needed medical attention, and fast. Yet he had him standing here, barely able to keep his feet. 

"S-She said she's coming for you." he croaked, "And then she's hunting John Wick." 

Viggo began rambling - in Russian, Helen realised - and she slowly backed away from the door. John was in danger? Someone, a woman, was after him? Why, what had he done? She had to warn him, before he ended up like that poor boy dripping blood all over Viggo's parquet floor. 

First, she needed to get _herself_ out of danger. She was sure Viggo didn't know she was here, and if he did… God, she didn't want to consider what it would mean for her otherwise. With shaky hands, she started packing up her things, as quietly but hurriedly as she could. She was unconsciously sorting items of priority - things she needed, things she could live without. She obviously couldn't take the majority of her supplies with her else it would be obvious she was fleeing with no intention of coming back. 

_Christ, Helen, why couldn't you have just gone home early and come back tomorrow like nothing was wrong?_

She was going to miss the pay from his job. But she would also miss her life if Viggo decided she'd seen something she shouldn't. 

Her bag was stuffed full when the door to the office thudded open. She jumped by default but with her nerves shredded as they were, she almost let out a yelp to match. 

"Miss Moore. I apologise, I didn't realise you were still here."

Helen swallowed past the lump in her throat, and nodded. Forced a smile onto her lips to direct at Viggo, slung her bag strap over her shoulder. 

"I'm sorry, time flew away from me. Was so caught up in the process, you know? I didn't even hear you come in - been listening to music all day." she plucked up a loose earphone from around her neck and gave it a little wiggle. _Idiot!_ It was too obvious, too telling she was trying to make it seem like the incident in the hallway hadn't been seen. 

"It's quite alright. Your commitment to your craft is admirable." he said with a smile that was far too departed from his previous attitude to his subordinates to feel natural. "You will be going home now, I presume?" 

"Yes."

"Safe journey home." he wished, though for some reason it struck her as wrong - that same gut feeling made its return.

As she passed him by, she couldn't help it - her eyes drifted to the arm of his shirt. A darker red than the wine colour of the cotton, in a distinct handprint-shape. 

"Oh." Viggo said suddenly, seemingly noticing it as well, "I must've gotten some of your paint on myself. How silly of me." 

Helen smiled to avoid letting out a panicked laugh at how idiotic it had been to show him that she had noticed. 

"It'll wash out." she promised, and gave him a quick, stern nod. "Goodnight, Mister Tarasov." 

“Goodnight, Miss Moore.”

She tried to keep her pace steady; it was so hard not to just _bolt_. The three young men were gone from the hallway but she didn’t linger to see where - she felt riddled with guilt for it, for her nerves pushed her through the lobby and immediately to the elevator. She could’ve found some courage and tried to help, but what could she do? She didn’t have any first-aid training, and she wasn’t sure there was anything she could’ve done on site even if she did. The boy needed an ambulance, and she wasn’t sure how Viggo would react to her calling one. If he had a heart, he’d do it himself. 

But she wasn’t sure that was very true.

In the elevator, the moment the doors closed, she dug her phone out of her bag. Her hands shook harder than she realised before, because it felt like her fingers kept missing the hard plastic of the buttons as she clicked through her contacts. She didn’t have many, but John’s number felt far too low down the list. And to think, she’d contemplated deleting it last night. 

It rang a few times. And then a few more, and then more. It went straight to voicemail, and a wave of dread washed over her. He was okay, wasn’t he? Tearing her phone away as the automated voice asked her to leave a message, she tried again - then again, and by the time she’d reached the bottom floor and hastily stepped out of the elevator, he still hadn’t answered. She felt the eyes of the doorman on her as she crossed to the glass door, and waited impatiently for him to let her out. Down on the street, she didn’t feel any safer than she had in Viggo’s office, but really she had no choice. She began a speedy walk right to the nearest subway entrance and descended underground. 

“Christ, John, please.” she whispered when once more her call was answered by the default tone. She’d never been left hanging this long before to know if it had always been this way or not. 

But Helen found herself nagged by doubt even as she tried to call him again; if she was finally admitting he was right about Viggo, that he was right all along and she had made a mistake, then what did that mean for him? Was she not making the very same mistake now, turning to him just to feel safe? And _why_ \- better yet _how_ \- could she feel safe with him knowing he worked for a cold man like Viggo who did fuck knows what under the table? 

How was she finding herself stricken with worry that he wasn’t answering his phone?

She made it to the bottom of the stairs and in the depths of the cold and grim subway. She realised, with a pang of discomfort, how empty the station was - it wasn’t even that late. God, maybe coming down here was a mistake. At least on the streets she might’ve had a chance of bumping into other people. If she stayed down here, she could hop on the soonest train and take it as far as she could. Go and stay with Evelyn tonight maybe, to help ease off this nagging fear. It was probably irrational. 

If it was irrational, why was she telling herself she would never set foot in Viggo’s office again? 

_No,_ she decided, she needed to get back up on the streets. She’d heard enough horror stories of attacks in the subway, and tonight, she really didn’t need the added panic. 

And yet as she hesitated, and turned back around, her heart lurched into her throat. How long had those two men been there? She tried to hope it was just a coincidence - that it just happened to be that the first two people she saw since leaving Viggo’s were behind her. But then they kept walking towards her without stopping and she realised she couldn’t begin to blame it on coincidence.

  
  


Especially not when she looked into the faces of the two boys turned barely-men from the office, trying to help their wounded friend.

They spoke to each other in a hushed tone, and not a word of it made sense to her. But the moment the taller one gave a nod to his friend, they picked up their pace - and charged right for her. 

She didn’t have the time to reach for the pepper spray in her coat pocket. Knowing her luck, however, it would’ve fallen out through the hole like everything else. In vain, she warned them to stay back - bluffed a taser was in her possession. It _wasn’t_ , and they very quickly realised it was a lie. It made them hesitate, though, if but for a second. 

A second that was long enough for her to swing her very-heavy bag around the head of the one closest to her. 

Not wasting a second, Helen ran. Tried to, anyway. Scrambled to balance herself and race for freedom, up the stairs - they were so close, but why did they feel so damn far away? She could’ve made it there in seconds, if she’d only had the one pursuer. And her bag was her downfall - she should’ve thrown it, discarded it, it didn’t matter. Not against her life. There was a sharp tug on it, then on her arm, and she stumbled backwards; right into the waiting arms of the one soul lucky enough to have dodged her swing.

Did they have a _gun?_ Helen’s heart was pounding in her ears but she heard the gunshot all the same - and then the second immediately following. _Then_ a grunt and a thud behind her, but the grip around her shoulders was still tight. 

“You can’t shoot me!” cried the voice over her shoulder - the same shaky one that had whimpered to Viggo not minutes before. The sound of a man whose voice had barely dropped, someone obviously tangled up with the wrong crowd. But he was following orders to the letter even when it wasn’t in his best interest; because here he was, with two friends dead. Facing it down himself, and yet he _still_ found the courage to press a knife against her throat. “You couldn’t hit me without hitting her!” he exclaimed, “I die, she dies with me!”

_I don’t think so!_

It was stupid, really. Incredibly stupid - but she threw her head back and felt something crack under the force. The second his grip slackened, she dove to her knees instinctively, as if it was the only thing she should’ve or could’ve done. And the instant she did, two more rounds fired off. Her shoulders were quivering when she heard the body thud against the floor behind her. 

“Helen! Helen, are you alright?” 

She grasped at the arm that reached for her, helped her to her feet. She certainly felt shaky, but mostly unharmed - there was a gash on her neck but it didn’t seem too deep. Only stung a little. With a little, uneven breath, she looked up to meet John’s gaze; and then downward, to where the handgun was held in a tight grip by his side. Finally, at the two young men dead behind her. 

“You killed them.” she whispered, as if she didn’t believe it. 

John didn’t respond, at least not how she imagined he might. “We have to go.” he said, though in a far softer tone than was befitting the situation. “Come on, it isn’t safe.”

“Okay,” she agreed, and collected her bag from where it had landed at her feet. John pulled on her arm - more of a gentle tug than anything she’d been exposed to just before, and set a quick pace up the stairs. She recognised his Audi parked haphazardly on the street, engine still running, driver’s door flung wide open. The keys were still in the ignition when he opened the passenger side door for her and she got in. 

“Keep pressure on that,” he instructed when he got in beside her, gesturing up to her neck. There was a click of the locks on the doors. “It’s just a short drive, maybe ten minutes. And then we’ll be somewhere safe.”

Helen blinked, and nodded. She tugged on the loose scarf around her neck and bundled it up against the cut - strangely, she was somehow concerned about losing her scarf to blood more than anything. How was that so high on her list of priorities? After what had just happened…

“Where are we going?” she murmured, watched as he deftly maneuvered the car back onto the street, quickly put his foot down. 

“Somewhere where Viggo can’t legally touch you,” said John, “We’re going to Continental.”


	9. Four-thirteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Side note to my lovely readers that I don't scream at on the regular in discord lmao: idk how long I'll be able to keep up these quick updates. But I'm definitely going to take advantage of my inspo and keep writing for as long as it'll let me!

Throughout his career, John had made many tense drives back to the Continental - both in New York and across the globe. But none had ever been as terribly and seemingly endless as this one. With Helen beside him, hurt and in danger, he saw a red stronger than the pigment of her blood seeping onto her bundled-up scarf. Still, he managed to drive somewhat carefully while racing through the streets to reach the hotel in record speed. 

The valet greeted him with polite familiarity when he got out of the car. He handed off the keys and rounded to the passenger side, helping Helen out - swiftly took her bag out of her hand, putting his other arm behind her and pushing the door closed. He guided her swiftly up the stairs. The safety of Continental extended only to the front doors, so right now, she was a target, and the second they stepped through into the pristine lobby, he felt like he could breathe again. 

Still, it didn't change the unease he felt at the eyes that turned to stare at them as they approached the short queue at the front desk. He whispered a quiet, "Keep your head down," to Helen, mostly for her sake. An instruction she followed immediately, as she came closer to him. 

Thankfully, Charon was ever the expert at his job. Before long his attention was freed up, and John stepped up to the desk with Helen at his side. 

"Welcome back, Mister Wick." he greeted politely, and his eyes never strayed from his face - not even curiously at Helen beside him. "Will you be requiring a room?" 

"Please. Usual amenities." he nodded, and would wait until later to explain that the hotel amenities Helen was used to were a little different here. Not that it mattered, when she was hurt, cold, and still in a little shock. John returned his gaze to the receptionist while he navigated his way through the computer in front of him. "Is the Doctor in?" 

"Always, Mister Wick. Would you like me to send him to your room?" 

"Yes." 

"Anything else?" 

"Not for the moment."

"Of course, sir." Charon placed a key atop the marble counter between them, and slid it across towards him. "Room four-thirteen. Enjoy your stay." 

"Thanks." John traded the key for a gold coin from his pocket, and collected Helen's bag from beside his feet. Together, they made haste to board the nearest elevator and when they were in the relative privacy of it, he shot Helen a look - she was still holding tight to the scarf against her throat, though it and her fingers were all bloody. She had a distant sort of look in her eye, like she'd stopped paying attention to her reality thirty minutes ago in that subway station. 

He reached for one of her hands, and squeezed it in his. 

"You're safe here, Helen." he promised, and her eyes flashed up to him - alert for the first time in a while. "I promise, no one can touch you here. It's the law of Continental." 

"What's that?" she murmured softly, just like he hoped she would. He hadn't explained on the off chance she'd find her words to ask. 

"Here, no business can be conducted - meaning no one can attack anyone else, nevermind kill. They face a death penalty otherwise." 

Helen nodded, in a short of stuttery way. By then the elevator made a ping, and they arrived on the fourth floor. Still, he was eager to get behind a locked door, so he placed a hand gently on her back and guided her down the corridor until they reached their door - he had never been superstitious but the thirteen branded in gold upon the door's surface made him uneasy. He held out a hand for her to wait when he unlocked the door, and set down her bag to reach for the handgun safely tucked away inside his blazer. When the room was proven clear, he beckoned her inside, collected her things, and locked it immediately behind them. 

"The Doctor will be knocking soon, you can trust him. I do." John said as she slowly settled on the edge of the bed in the centre of the room. He found a spot to lay her bag down on the table before the window, and did his usual check of the space; no window in the bathroom and no other exits but the one they entered through. Hastily, he drew the curtains together, and checked the rounds left in his gun. Still missing only four - what else had he expected? 

"John," Helen said softly, and he set it down to turn to her quickly. She was staring at him, blinking rapidly, and he saw a telltale sheen in her eyes that betrayed the poker face she was trying to uphold. "T-Thank you, I… I really thought I was going to…" 

"But you didn't." he finished, before she could take the sentence any further. He crossed the room to her, and when she nodded, he settled beside her on the edge of the bed. "You were clever to call me, Helen. I'm sorry I didn't answer, but it led me to you."

"It did?" 

He showed off the phone he retrieved from his pocket, "By default, I can track most calls. You led me right to you, Helen."

Out of her coat pocket, she produced her own phone; a small, battered old thing. It lacked the touch screen he was used to, made up of physical buttons and a smaller display. 

"Can I?" he asked, and held out his hand. "It's best to shut it off entirely, remove the battery. It'll buy us some more time." 

She didn't ask, _until what?_ She simply handed him the phone without question, and the screen woke up in response to the shuffle - her lockscreen was a photograph of herself and her sister, with whom he presumed were her parents. A wave of guilt hit him with the force of a tsunami; how long would it be until it would be safe for her to see her family again? Was she even aware that suddenly her whole world had changed? 

There was a knock at the door, and Helen jumped. She instinctively reached for him, and he squeezed her hand as he got to his feet. 

"The Doctor," he explained, and when he answered the door, sure enough he spoke true. "Doc," he greeted, offering the familiar man the hand that didn't hold Helen's phone. The shorter, older man offered him a professional yet friendly smile, and shook his hand with the one free of his medical bag. 

"Good evening, Mister Wick. You look rather well for someone who's injured." chuckled the Doctor, and John stepped aside to let him in. When he rounded the wall to find Helen perched on the bed, he let out a, "Oh, I see. Good evening, Miss." 

She managed a smile and a nod, but neither looked completely warm. He wasn't surprised - she'd been shaking like a leaf from the cold when she'd touched him. He checked the air conditioning and ensured it was switched off entirely. Usually he hated the air being at all stuffy, but Helen needed her warmth more than he needed his cool. 

"Here, let me see to that." he heard the Doctor say behind him, and when he turned around again, Helen had lowered the scarf to her lap, wincing a little when she angled her head up for him to see the wound. "Ah, this doesn't look too terrible. Not very deep, certainly not life threatening. It probably won't even scar." 

He was far more relieved about that than he ought to be. To be the cause of a permanent mark on her body would've been terrible enough, but one in a place so prevalent? John hovered at the edge of the room, feeling sort of antsy - he'd already dismantled Helen's phone and laid its piece out flat on the table by the window. The case, the battery, the SIM card, the back panel, all flat and uniformly beside one another. Part of him contemplated taking it apart further just so that he could do anything but watch the Doctor clean and bandage Helen's fresh wound. 

He hated that he would have to consider it as _fresh_. As if she could easily earn more. 

"There," Doc said with a warm smile, as he clambered up from his knees. "Clean it regularly and it'll heal in no time. Do you need anything for the pain?" 

Helen nodded faintly, and he retrieved a small tub of pills which he handed to her. 

"Two every four hours should the pain persist." he instructed, "Is that all, Mister Wick? You have no ailments I should take a look at?" 

"For once, no." John said. At least not _physically_ \- his rage might've been a problem to a different kind of doctor. "Thank you, Doc."

Before he left, he offered him a coin. It wasn't necessary, but he felt as if it was the least he owed. The Doctor accepted it with thanks, and when John firmly locked the door once more, he took a breath before returning to Helen. 

She seemed a little more lively now. More alert, more responsive; she looked up when he walked into her field of vision, and stretched out a hand on the mattress as an invitation for him to join her again. He settled beside her, but now that she was mentally here once more, he felt as if he didn't need to reassure her with touch. He felt as if he didn't deserve to touch her anyhow. 

But Helen hesitantly reached out to him, and the least he could do was offer his hand. When she had it tight between both of her own in her lap, she wet her lips and frowned. 

"It was Viggo." she said with certainty, "They were his men, I recognised them."

He ran his thumb over her knuckles. "What did you see, Helen?" 

"Those two men that you… That I…" she was struggling. After a moment, she sighed, and tried again, "Those two men that attacked me, they were in Viggo's office. There was a third but he was really badly hurt - he said it had been done by _her_ , that she was coming for Viggo. Then she'd come for you, too." 

_Irina._ John felt himself scowl, but before he could let his anger get even further carried away, he asked, "And then?"

"Then Viggo came into the office. I mean, I was a bit startled so I couldn't really pretend I hadn't seen or heard anything very well, so it must've been obvious." 

"Helen, this was _not_ your fault," he said quickly, before she could allow herself to begin to press blame on her own shoulders. "None of this was your fault, do you understand?" 

For a moment, she didn't move. No nod, no agreement; she simply stared at their hands together and breathed, slowly, in and out. 

"But those men are dead, John." she murmured, "And it's my fault. If it wasn't for me, they wouldn't-" 

"They tried to _kill_ you and you feel guilt for what _I_ did to them?" 

After a short second of consideration, she nodded. John let out a soft sigh. How could she care so much? For all that had happened to her, somehow she still found it in herself to feel guilty for the deaths of those who hurt her. And at his hands, nonetheless. 

Helen was far too good for his world. Bright, beautiful, warm Helen - feeling remorse for _his_ actions for the sake of her self-defence. He admired her gentle nature, but it would have to change quickly if she were to stand any chance at lasting long in the Underworld. 

"So is this the secret you were trying to protect me from?" Helen said softly and he had wondered how long it would be before she brought it up. "You kill people?" 

She said it with such ease for such a soft, sweet woman, that it was jarring. And yet with both of her tiny hands around his, he couldn't bear to pull away and distance himself. Because despite it all, he felt relief, and he hated himself for it. No longer did he have to hide, or keep secrets. He could tell her anything and everything. Even if this was the outcome he'd dreaded coming to pass, he found himself… Contented. Happy. Because she was here with him, and seemed okay, and comfortable. Though it wasn't much of a high bar to beat. 

"It's a… Complicated topic I think would be better suited for a long discussion." he admitted, allowing his sense to take the reins. "Maybe you should get some rest, or we can order food up if you're hungry. It's a conversation we should have when you're feeling better." 

"I think…" Helen's eyes drifted to the bathroom door, "Is there a bath? I'd like to take a bath. I haven't had a bath in years." 

"Of course. Use whatever you'd like in this room but you have to promise something to me." 

Helen looked up at him, and he could see the alarm in her eyes. As if she expected some terrible trade off, some sort of payment in return. 

"You can't leave this room." he said, and slowly, she blinked. "Continental is used by anyone who's anyone in my world - I don't want to risk you meeting anyone you aren't ready to handle. Not until you at least know more." 

"That's… Fair." she agreed, nodding. "I made the mistake of not trusting your judgement about this before. I won't make it again." 

Something came by natural means through those words - she was _trusting_ him. Really, she had little choice considering she seemed to understand she was out of her depth by now, but it was enough to inspire some warmth to bloom in his chest at it. 

"I need to go and have a chat with the Manager." John said as she slowly got to her feet - but she turned to him and he was conscious of the uneasy look in her eyes. "I won't be gone long. Thirty minutes at the longest, but please don't feel unsafe. You'll be fine here." 

"I'm not worried about myself," she admits, "Worried about you, going out there."

John couldn't fight the way his lips twitched. But to be fair to her, she couldn't know just what he was capable of from a simple scuffle with two unskilled goons. She couldn't have an understanding of who he really was because he _hadn't_ told her. He shouldn't, even still. 

Yet he found himself looking forward to finally being able to share the truth. 

"I'll be fine." he promised, but left his gun on the counter. Pointedly looked at it so she got the hint, "You know how to use it?" 

She nodded. "My dad taught me when I was younger. It's been a while, though." 

"You shouldn't need it, but keep it ready just in case." 

"But what about you?" 

John smiled at her. "I don't need a gun." 

He headed for the door, but hesitated one more time before he left. 

"If you need anything," he said, "Use the phone and call the front desk. Ask for Charon - he'll help you. You can trust him." 

Helen nodded, and eyed the land-line on the wall. As he reached for the door handle, he was relieved to see her offer him a small smile; she caught the key he tossed her way pretty well for someone who was shaken up. 

"Lock the door behind me."

He waited until he heard the click of the key being turned in the lock. Only then did he back away from the door and return to the elevator; Winston was always in, it was very rare indeed that he wasn't. But would he be in the lounge at this hour, or his office? John checked his watch. It was a little late for him to still be in the lounge, but it _was_ a Friday. Still, he decided he'd check the office at the top floor first. 

As usual, he was greeted at the door by two guards; he had seen these two here before, but didn't know them by name. They knew him, however, so one of them reached for one of the double doors and ducked his head inside. 

"Sir, Mister Wick is here to see you." 

"Send him in." 

He nodded his head in thanks when the door was held open for him, and found Winston just as he always was; comfortably reclined in a plush chair, drink in hand, staring out at a pretty view of New York from the windows behind him. When John had been left standing there in silence long enough, Winston spun around in his chair to face him, leaning forward on the desk with a sigh. 

"A little bird told me that this evening, a one Mister Wick entered my lobby with a woman on his arm." he said calmly and with perfect clarity - his crisp British accent affording him the elegance John always felt like he was tumbling over in English. "And this comes not days after I receive word that Irina Volkava is back in New York." 

He opened his mouth to speak but Winston wasn't finished. 

"Yet I hear that, instead of the two of you learning to enjoy one another's company again after so long, that the lady in John Wick's care was bleeding and shaking like a deer caught in headlights." as he spoke, he was getting faster, more displeased. He leaned back in his chair, and the glare he offered him would've frightened him years ago. "What the bloody hell have you done, Jonathan?" 

"Saved an innocent woman from a fate she didn't deserve." he said simply, and found his way to Winston's liquor cabinet. Once, the Manager had told him to feel free to help himself to it - and John would even now whilst Winston seemed ready to throttle him. 

"An innocent woman? Then she's a civilian." 

John said nothing. He poured a thin volume of bourbon in a glass, and resolved to drink no more than that tonight. 

Winston sighed as John turned once more to face him. 

"You understand what you've done, haven't you?" he asked, "By bringing her upon Continental grounds, you've surrendered up her claim to ignorance. And not only that, but you've placed her directly on _your_ list of association. Do you understand the danger she's in?" 

"I do, and it's exactly why I've brought her here." 

"But for how long can she be forced to live here in sanctuary, Jonathan? You have far more enemies than she could ever have, and the poor woman must have a life she wishes to return to." 

It was John's turn to sigh. "I haven't gotten that far yet." 

Winston straightened up and there was a smile on his face. "Well, colour me surprised - John Wick without a plan?" 

He let himself ease enough to return the smile, if a bit wryly. He watched the liquid in his glass move as he swirled it, before taking a small sip. 

"I just couldn't leave her, Winston. I know it was stupid, and I shouldn't have, but I got to know her. She was in danger and I just reacted." 

He didn't say anything for a moment. John could feel his eyes on him, but he didn't meet his gaze; chose instead to look out over the view. Winston really did have a rather spectacular view out of these windows. The streets far down below, and the city skyline shining through the dark blanket of the night sky. 

"So what did you come to me for, Jonathan?" asked Winston, "Because you know how I feel regarding this situation as it stands without asking." 

He certainly did - Winston was a patient man, wiser than John ever could be. And yet he drew the line at various points despite how much he had seen, and how much he still sees every day in this world. One of them, namely, was the involvement of those of the other side. Like John, he agreed that those not aware of the Underworld didn't deserve to be dragged in, though there was no official law set by the High Table to dispute it. So often was the case that innocent people fell victim to those protected by exemptions to the law of the normal world. And so far, John had stuck by his self-imposed rules. He had never taken advantage of an innocent life, or put them in harm's way whilst a colleague might've. 

Yet obviously, his clean record had been stuck now that Helen was here at Continental. Winston would never approve of the circumstance in which she had come to be here, no matter if it was in her defence. It could've been argued that John saved Helen from death only to deliver her a worse fate being trapped in the Underworld forever. 

But for the moment, John refused to let himself consider the long-term effects of what this would mean for her. He had spent long enough torturing himself over the possibility and now it had came to pass, he was focused only on ensuring she remained safe. 

"I'd like some advice." he admitted, and instead of pacing, he forced himself so sit in one of the armchairs before Winston's desk. "Helen was threatened by someone in particular, and that makes things… Difficult, as to where I should stand."

"How so?" if Winston had any reaction to her name, he didn't show it. But John was certain he stored it for later. 

"Viggo Tarasov ordered her dead. I killed the men that attacked her." 

"Ah." was all Winston said at first. John appreciated his patience - if he had even a pinch less, he would've exploded on him. Calmly, Winston set down his glass with a soft _clink_ against the mahogany. "Last I heard, Tarasov was the holder of your contract."

"He is." 

"Then I see how this situation places you in a precarious position." Winston sighed, and gave him the piece of advice John had expected - but it didn't make it any less unwanted. "Well, I implore you to reconsider your current situation. Reevaluate the value of this woman's life against your reputation, Jonathan. You understand what could happen should you break this contract, I hope." 

He did. Viggo Tarasov was a dangerous man to make an enemy of - but by going after Helen, Viggo had achieved that all on his own. 

John Wick was a far more dangerous enemy than Tarasov could _ever_ be. 

"If Viggo considers this a breach of the contract, then that is how it will be." John said with a shrug. "I'm unconcerned." 

"Perhaps you aren't. But maybe you should, if you have any intention to continue this silly charade with that woman." 

He actively elected to ignore that. It was bold of Winston to assume the state of anything between himself and Helen, but truthfully, he wasn't wrong. A charade was exactly how it had been up until a few hours ago. 

"By association, she will be a target. If not already, if Tarasov considers her so much of a threat that he would send assassins." 

John couldn't help the subtle smile. "They weren't assassins. They were the first idiots he could find that would pose a threat to an unarmed woman. And she certainly didn't give them an easy time of taking her by surprise, either." 

Really, he was furious with her that one, she'd been so foolish to go into the subway. And two, that she'd endangered herself _and_ hurt herself giving him an opening. But he also felt pride, and that easily overwhelmed the anger; he didn't blame her for being shaken up, but she handled herself well. 

"But you know full well he could very easily hire anyone more capable." 

"And they'd have to go through _me_ , Winston." 

"Therein lies the problem." Wiston exclaimed with disbelief, and sighed at him. "Jonathan, Tarasov _holds your contract_. For all intents and purposes, he is your employer. Tearing your ties in such an explosive manner simply over a woman… It will cause damage to your reputation, your integrity. Not to mention it is incredibly foolish if Tarasov feels it is personal."

"It _is_ personal." he huffed. 

But Viggo didn't necessarily know that. That was because John had done an expert job of hiding any bond between himself and Helen - by attacking her, he couldn't have known the enemy he would make of John. 

However, he was sure killing without hesitation in her defence made it _explicitly_ clear. 

Winston sighed, and rubbed at his brow. "You asked for my advice, and I gave it. Take the night to think it over, Jonathan, and I suggest you reach out to Tarasov in the morning. If you are prompt enough about it, he may not consider it as a sleight." another sigh, "Yet, when taking _your_ situation into consideration against the news of his brother, he may not be in a forgiving mood."

"What happened to his brother had nothing to do with me." he said swiftly, "That was Irina's doing. She's trying to dismantle my life again." 

"I'd say you're doing a spectacularly excellent job of burning bridges all on your own." 

John scowled. His attitude had mostly been passive towards Winston, even after his simply ridiculous suggestions regarding Helen. Yet suddenly with the conversation turned to Volkava, he felt less eager to engage. 

"Have you seen her yet, by chance?" asked Winston, and John quickly shook his head. "A shame. She visited me on her first day back; quite explicitly clear she didn't want to speak of you. But you'll be delighted to hear she is no longer blonde." 

"Why should that interest me?" 

"Because you are rather predictable with your tastes in women, Jonathan. Even your new lady is a brunette, is she not?" 

His scowl only deepened. Comparing Irina and Helen made his blood boil more than it ought to - it was like Helen's mural, putting a demon against an angel. Helen didn't deserve being compared to such a cold-heartened, conniving, cruel woman. 

John was definitely biased, but he had every reason to be 

"Well, thank you for the advice." John said as he stood, and set the empty glass on the edge of the desk. 

"Do with it as you will. But consider it wisely, Jonathan." Winston warned, "If you're determined, step very, _very_ carefully. Remember, you are not the person you should worry about." 

He was right. If he was dead set on this path, it was Helen he should be concerned about - he could handle anything Viggo could throw at him. But Helen? If he saw her hurt again, he wasn't sure what suddenly he'd be capable of. 

Yet Winston wasn't right on all fronts. As John left the office and returned to the elevator, he mulled over his words; Winston kept insisting on the damage to his reputation, to the ties he held with others. That would imply John cared and he… Didn't. He never had cared for the politics of the Underworld, so long as he obeyed the few laws of the High Table. People would _always_ need killers in his line of work - and people would always want the best. And he was the best, no amount of whining from Viggo Tarasov was going to change that.

And Tarasov _knew._ If John broke off the contract before its time, then there was only one thing he could do to punish him. 

Idly, John checked his phone. He searched the new listing of contracted kills, and as of right now, searching for Helen's name provided no results. He was sure that if he continued to protect her, however, it would quickly become apparent what was really going on - it wouldn't be long until there was a listing. 

He did, however, find another contract he was curious about. There she was; Irina Volkava, with a bounty of a measly five-hundred thousand. It was still open, so no one had managed it yet - not like he had expected anyone to have, and definitely not so soon. The photograph supplied was from her agency identification, taken years ago. That was the Irina he remembered, a stubborn and fierce woman who'd shout at him if he so much as held a door open for her. She was independent and fiery, but at the very least, no job had ever been made boring by her antics. They'd been a deadly pair for the brief time they could agree to work together, before it fell apart quickly and they agreed to return to solo work. Their only contact then had been of… Other natures. Until one day she decided she was bored of him, and ran away to Europe. 

Part of him had hoped she'd come back. He didn't know why because she'd trampled all over him like he meant nothing, and he'd already given up hope for happiness. After a year, he became less hopeful - after three, he tried to tell himself he didn't care. Then five, and he decided he would let himself try to move on to no avail. After six, he gave up on dating. By the eighth year, he'd resolved to never consider it again until Helen waltzed her way into his life. 

And now Irina was back. After eight long years she'd come back, and for what? To torture him for the hell of it? Did she expect him to grovel at her feet and ask her to come back to him? Surely she hadn't thought he would wait for her all this time. 

The worst part was, he _had_. Unconsciously, every day for every week and every month of the last eight years, he'd waited for her. Until, at least, he met Helen. 

News spread around the Underworld quickly, and the Continental was the best place for rumours to get out of hand. It wouldn't be long until Irina heard about Helen, and he was certain she wouldn't enjoy it. She'd always had a rather possessive streak, even when she told him to fuck off and left him hanging for weeks on end. So what now, that it had been a long eight years of hanging? What did it mean for Helen? 

He shook off the thought as he walked back down the corridor to room thirteen. For the moment, it didn't have to be a concern. For tonight, Helen was safe, and he would be with her to ensure it stayed that way. He could afford - at least for a little while - not to consider the implications of what this would all mean in the long run. 

John rapped his knuckles against the door. He worried for a moment that Helen would still be enjoying a long - and much deserved - soak in the tub. But after a moment, he heard the key twist in the lock, and Helen eased the door open. 

She waited until he'd locked the door behind them and followed her back into the room to say anything. 

"What did he say?" she murmured, seemingly a little on edge. 

"He told me I should carefully consider my options. Nothing I didn't already know." he said with a shrug, and couldn't help letting his gaze wander back over to her. Her hair was still damp, but slowly drying into curls that rested on the collar of the fluffy hotel gown she had bundled around herself. At the very least, she looked better than earlier. 

"And your options?" she pressed, "What are they?" 

John hesitated, and rubbed at his jaw. Instead of answering, he asked his own question: "Are you hungry?" 

"I don't imagine the options the Manager laid out for you were about food, John." 

He smiled. "No, but I know you haven't eaten dinner." 

"If I say yes, will you tell me?" 

With a nod, he reached for the menu neatly tucked into a stand upon the desk under the window. Offering it to her, he settled in the chair. He watched her; the way her shoulders slumped a little when she saw the prices, but the comfortable manner in which she settled down on the bed. It was less perching nervously on the edge now, and more folding her legs to lie sideways across it. She looked far more at ease, and he was glad. 

She said she didn't have much of an appetite, so she didn't order much - even if John insisted she could have whatever she wanted. Room service was prompt, and before long, they were sharing the most bizarre dinner they'd had yet. She joined him at the table, and it was somewhat difficult to ignore the fact that when she crossed her legs, the slit of the gown fell - both simultaneously unfortunately _and_ fortunately - perfectly around them. He wasn't sure if it was intentional or not, because it was somewhat difficult to read what was exactly on her mind at any given moment. So, he didn't bring it up, nor let himself look for very long. 

"What did he say, then?" Helen asked after nibbling idly for far too long on a roll of bread, like she wasn't sure if she was still hungry enough to eat it after her pasta. "The Manager, I mean." 

He knew who she meant. Still, it didn't make him want to explain it any more than he already _didn't._ However, Helen deserved to know. After all, it was her that was in danger, here. 

"I told you Viggo held my contract," he began, and she nodded, "That's the truth; by all rights, he employs me, and by going against him like I did tonight, that puts our contract on thin ice." 

"Contracted to do what, exactly?" 

This was the conversation he wasn't sure he was ready to have with her. But he also couldn't refuse her, not anymore. 

"I solve problems." he shrugged. "Most often, those problems are people. Enemies, competitors. People who pissed him off by chance." 

"So…" Helen frowned, "You're like a hitman?" 

He nearly choked. She said that so calmly she could've been talking about the weather. 

"I- there's no _like_ about it." 

"Okay." 

John raised a brow. "Okay?" 

"Okay." she said again, nodding. "So, you kill people. I paint demons. It's a job." 

"Helen," he said slowly, and she looked at him. "Are you even hearing what you're saying?" 

"I told you, John. I wasn't going to judge you then, and I'm not now. You might kill people, but you saved my life tonight because of it." she sighed, and gave up on the bread roll, setting it down on the edge of her plate. "I… Definitely understand why you were afraid to tell me, though. It'd be a lie if I said I wasn't surprised." 

"You don't seem it." 

"You'll have to excuse me if I'm struggling to prioritise what to feel right now." 

John nodded, and settled his gaze to the table. He took a breath before continuing on, "It's obviously considered bad business practise to preemptively break a contract. The Manager - suggested I consider reaching out to Viggo to see where we stand. I'm of the mind to break the contract anyway." 

"Because of… Me?" she murmured. As if it was a surprise. 

"I rarely have cause to make conflict for the sake of it. But it's even rarer that it's personal." 

Helen started chewing on her lip, and frowned hard at the surface of the table. John watched her as her hand curled into a little fist beside her plate, but it wasn't very tight. Just tense. 

"But is it not dangerous to piss him off?" she asked nervously, "I mean, you already might've by killing his men. And what about your reputation? Wouldn't Viggo tell other, uhm… Clients that you broke the contract?" 

"Trust me, my reputation would hardly suffer because of Viggo Tarasov." John chuckled - but she was quick. Already picking up on the idea that his name might carry weight in whatever world he operated in, even if she had no idea of the scope of it. "And, no matter how many men Viggo could send after me, I'd still win." 

Helen's eyes flashed up to him. "I can't tell whether you're cocky or just bold." she said, and he smiled. "You're… Well, you seem different talking about this."

"Not _bad_ different, I hope?" 

"No, it's good. You're confident, more involved. I like it." 

It wasn't a good thing. He had to tell himself that she only liked a new, terrible part of him she'd just learned existed. He tried to convince himself he shouldn't feel happy about it - but it did very little. 

"So what are you going to do?" she asked, sitting upright. 

John leaned back into his chair as well, and shrugged. "Nothing. For the moment, anyhow - when morning comes, I'll contact Viggo. Or, he might contact me, depending on how pissed off he is. It might surprise you, but he prefers to settle things peacefully. At least with _me."_

"Is that not just because you're so supposedly dangerous?" she asked with a teasingly quirked brow, and he huffed in amusement. "Can I ask one more question? And then I promise, I'll drop it for tonight." 

"Of course." he almost told her she could ask anything she wanted, but he realised how late it was getting. And after the excitement of today, they could both use some sleep. 

"Just how dangerous are you, John?" 

He hesitated. But this time, it wasn't because he didn't want to tell her - but because he wasn't sure how to accurately describe his infamy in a way that would sufficiently tell her what she needed to know. 

"The Underworld is a lot bigger than you might've thought," he says, "It's led by a collection of powerful individuals called the High Table - made up of dignitaries, politicians, crime lords, common folk hidden in plain sight, even royalty in some places. Across the globe, it's everywhere." he paused, waiting for some sort of reaction. He wasn't sure what he was expecting, but she just nodded. She was probably wondering where this was going. "My name is known by anyone who cares to last longer than a day in this world." 

"You're sorta a big deal." she assumed, and he didn't want to, but he nodded in agreement. "So let me get this straight. John Wick is like, a household name?" 

His lips twitched. "I suppose you could say that." 

Helen hummed. Then, suddenly, she got to her feet, and crossed the short gap to the bed. Christ, she had to know what she was doing when she lounged back across it, giving him only the briefest but most tantalising peeks of her bare legs. And he felt _awful_ for even thinking about it, with everything that had happened. By all rights, having a hotel room to themselves was like a dream come true - just the circumstance that had brought it about made him feel so horribly scummy that he stayed rigid in his chair. 

"How many?" she asked, as she settled up against the pillows. 

John frowned at her. "How many what?" 

"Kills. How many do you have?"

"I'll answer that with a question of my own: _how_ are you so calm about this?" 

Helen just smiled. "I think it helps to know you're on my side, John." 

He sighed, and ran a hand through his hair. "Four hundred and thirty-six." he recited instantly, and Helen quirked a brow. "Contracted hits. Not including security, personal bodyguards, or people who generally got in my way." 

"Jesus fucking Christ." she murmured, and he wondered if he'd finally broken her. But no; "And I thought I was gonna outdo you with my measly hundred and seventeen." 

_"What?"_

"Completed paintings." Helen replied instantly, like it was obvious. She let out a soft little sigh, and patted the bed beside her. "Come to bed, John."

His heart had barely recovered from the unexpected shock from Helen trying to compare numbers. For a second, he just blinked at her dumbly, and she rolled her eyes. 

"I'm not asking you to _sleep_ with me, John. We could both use some rest, I think." 

"Yes. You're right." he said, realising how stiff his own voice sounded. He cleared his throat as he got to his feet and went to turn off the lights - Helen flicked on a bedside lamp by the time he returned. This was really _not_ the circumstance he imagined them first sharing a bed in. By pure chance, he accidentally caught her gaze as he undid the buttons of his waistcoat, and all of a sudden his throat felt dry. 

This was _wrong._ He should've gone to the lobby and gotten the key to another room - had he not, only this morning, swore to avoid her? He felt like he was taking advantage of the terrible situation she'd fallen into. But she was smiling at him, waiting for him. 

They were going to sleep. Nothing else, he swore that. Not that she was in the mood anyhow, considering everything. And if she was, then she was sufficiently insane. 

He'd always been meticulous with how he undressed. He hung his blazer and waistcoat off hangers in the empty closet, while Helen had discarded her clothes in a pile by the bathroom door. He undid his tie, and unbuttoned his shirt to hang with them. He knew Helen was watching him, and more than likely examining the bulletproof vest he wore over the t-shirt he had on; he'd taken the extra precaution that morning when Viggo had insisted there was something important to attend to. 

Really, he should've been more preoccupied with concerns of tomorrow than the other thoughts currently racing through his mind. He should've worried more about what the hell Viggo could say to him than wondering what was on Helen's mind as he undid his belt. Really, he had a million other problems to worry about, but he found himself thinking about the way Helen shyly averted her gaze instead. 

For a little while, it was hard to sleep. Especially when she was right there, within arm's length, lying on her side and looking right at him. Every so often she'd murmur a question, and he'd answer. She seemed preoccupied mostly with confirming if parts of the John she'd seen on their dates was the one she was looking at now; if he really was Russian, or he'd said that just to impress her. He chuckled and proved it with a sentence he knew she wouldn't be able to understand - and one he took great satisfaction in saying. That he was glad she was there, even if the events that led them there were terrible. She asked if he'd really read Jekyll and Hyde, and he admitted the irony of the situation he'd worried over in comparison to the novella. 

Very quickly, she ran out of questions. And for that, he was glad, because it meant he hadn't deceived her as much as he originally thought. That the rest of him that she'd seen was the real him, the part he hadn't had to hide. Eventually, she sighed, let her eyes close, and continued to try to keep the conversation up. But she drifted off before she even got an answer to her mumbled question he didn't quite hear. When he was sure she was asleep, he reached over her to switch off the lamp behind her, and tried to settle as well.

_Christ._

Considering how his day had begun, he hadn't expected this was how it would end. Helen was right - he needed sleep, so terribly. But his mind was awake, and it didn't want to let him go peacefully. Not without a fight. 

All of a sudden, John Wick had a whole list of problems. Yet, for some reason, he couldn't bring himself to care. 


	10. Blood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *sneezes* *another chapter appears* 
> 
> istg it really feels like all it takes is a sneeze sometimes because I start a new chapter and finish it and suddenly I've time travelled four hours into the future and where the fuck did the daylight go
> 
> anyway... enjoy lmao

Helen felt like she was sleeping on a cloud. She couldn't remember the last time her bed felt so comfortable; she'd been sleeping on a lumpy mattress for so long that made her back ache every morning. It could be cured with a few stretches and a warm shower if she had both the time and could afford the luxury of one that wasn't cold. 

With a stretch, she cracked open her eyes. The room was mostly gloomy except for the sliver of light peeking through the crack in the curtains, but as she pushed herself upright and rubbed at her eyes, they opened a little wider. 

“Good morning," came John's voice, and all of a sudden things came back to her in a quick flash. She tried not to appear so disoriented, and tugged up the shoulder of the robe that'd slipped in her sleep. 

"Morning." she murmured with a stifled yawn, and rubbed away the sleep from her eyes. Damn, she'd left her contacts in. "Do you mind passing me my bag?" 

"Of course." 

He deftly picked it up from where he'd set it down last night, on the table under the window. When she took it from him, she vaguely noticed he was already fully dressed, and looking as fine as ever. Black slacks and a matching shirt and tie, finished off with that waistcoat. How was it he could wear the same clothes two days in a row and still look prim and proper? She could barely wear the same jeans twice without looking scruffy - but she also tended to get paint everywhere. 

She found the little container for her contacts and dug deeper for her glasses case, buried haphazardly at the bottom beneath hastily-packed tools and her laptop tossed in diagonally. Damn, she'd really been in a hurry - and for good reason, she realised with retrospect. If she'd been a second slower, delayed any longer, maybe Viggo would've killed her himself. 

"Hungry?" John asked, and by the time she'd taken out her contacts and settled her glasses on her nose, she felt her stomach growl. Certainly she might not have had a very big appetite last night, but her hunger now was more than making up for it. 

"Ravenous." she admitted, and John smiled kindly at her before bringing over a tray from the table. He set it down atop the ruffled sheets, and if she didn't know any better, she'd think they did more than sleep from the mess. She hadn't been too fidgety, had she? Oh, she hoped she hadn't kicked him or something in her sleep. 

"I ordered it up a few minutes ago. I seem to have excellent timing." 

"After the save last night? Yeah, I agree." 

At the mention of it, John frowned. "How are you feeling?" 

"Not terrible. Feeling a little queasy, but I don't know if that's anxiety or just hunger, to be honest." 

He gestured to the tray, "Then eat. It'll be good for you to have something in your system anyhow." 

She nodded, and reached for a slice of toast. It was still warm, thanks to his convenient timing, as were the eggs she helped herself to. By the time she realised John was looking at her, she was suddenly conscious of the way she was eating - she wasn't eating like an animal, was she? She wasn't that hungry. 

"What…?" Helen asked a little nervously, covering her mouth with a hand.

"Nothing, I-" he stopped, showed off a sort-of guilty smile. "I've just never seen you in glasses before." 

_ Oh. _ If she wasn't already blushing from preemptive embarrassment from how she could've looked, now she was. Slowly, she finished chewing, and swallowed. 

"I almost always wear my contacts," she admitted, "I think glasses feel so clunky."

"Me too." 

Helen blinked at him, aback. Was he saying  _ she  _ looked clunky, or that he could relate to the feeling? He must've realised the way in which it sounded, because he shook his head. 

"I mean I prefer not to wear them. I'm long-sighted, I have to wear glasses to read like an old man." 

She took in a sharp breath. Not at the idea of an old man, God no - but at the mental image of John in glasses.  _ Oh.  _ Why did even just imagining it make her hot? It was unfair, really. 

Or was it, considering she'd spent the night in the same bed as him? 

No, it was definitely unfair. Because she'd spent the night in this bed and both of them were clothed. She fell asleep instantly and evidently slept for far too long to even see him get dressed again. 

Helen cleared her throat, and tried to swap matters into something a little more straightforward. 

"Have you spoken to Viggo?" she asked, and took a little sip from the glass of orange juice set upon the tray. God, that was nice - so fruity and sweet, almost as if she could  _ taste  _ the price tag. 

"No. I'm waiting for him to reach out." John said with a shrug, and leaned back upon the edge of the table, "I stand to lose nothing from our fallout, while he would have a whole lot to gain by grovelling. I want to see how he'd try to make this right." 

"Never saw you as the grudge-holding type, John." she admitted, and he frowned. Not at her, but the wall. 

"Then you'd be surprised." 

"I didn't mean it negatively. Hey, I still swear vengeance one day on the mailman that didn't ever bring the Barbie I was waiting for when I was six." 

John's frown fell away, and the corners of his lips twitched upwards. He unfolded his arms, and crossed the short gap between the desk and the end of the bed, carefully seating himself so he didn't disturb the tray. He let out a little sigh, and she felt the urge to reach for him. She would've, had the dumb tray not been right in her way. 

"What's wrong?" Helen asked, now disinterested in her breakfast. Why was he so serious all of a sudden? 

"A lot of things." he said vaguely, "Too many to count." 

"Like?" 

"This."

Helen blinked, "I didn't realise  _ this  _ was so bad." 

Quickly, he turned to face her, and frowned. "No, I didn't mean  _ this _ . You and I. No, it's…" 

As quick as it came, her anger ebbed away. "It's what, John?" she pressed, and he looked up at her with some uncertainty. 

"It's nice to be able to tell you the truth." he said, "To be able to spend time with you and not feel like I'm a liar. But, Helen, it's all such a mess. You should never have been dragged into this."

" _Dragged_ into this?" she echoed, "Implying I didn't get myself screwed like this myself by not listening to you. By thinking I was better than your advice."

John hesitated, "Well, yes, that is a contributing factor. But there's a lot of things at play here that complicate things."

She rose a brow and waited for some sort of explanation. If there really were a lot of things at play, then she needed to know - she had every right to. Yet he seemed confused on where he could start. Or, at the least, was frowning and buying himself time to think. She waited, patience slipping away by the minute, and when finally she thought he might say something, there was a loud, violent buzz from the table. 

His eyes met hers, and then without a word, he got to his feet. Collecting his phone from the table, he took one look at the screen, and tilted it her way - Viggo. With a tiny nod of encouragement, Helen could only feel tense as John answered, and placed the phone to his ear. No greeting, no nothing. He simply waited in silence until she heard a vaguely muted voice on the other end. 

But it would do no good anyway, because of course he was speaking in Russian. 

Helen sighed softly, not loud enough to be heard. Carefully, she got out of bed and stretched, tugging the robe tight around her. She didn't know what she'd been thinking, not putting her damn clothes back on. John was a gentleman; he would  _ never  _ have used the situation in any other way than he had. Honestly, she was a little surprised he'd even agreed to sleep in the same bed with her. So she couldn't help but feel a  _ little  _ disappointed as she padded over to the bathroom door, and kicked her discarded pile of clothes in with her. 

Even from in here, she could hear the vague sounds of John talking in the bedroom.  _ Fuck,  _ him speaking Russian should've been illegal. Him speaking at all should've, really, because his voice was beautifully rich. Deep and somehow so soft, like a plush velvet tickling her spine. But with Viggo, he was speaking in short bursts, snappy and so very displeased - somehow that tone had absolutely zero change in how it made her feel. 

With a sigh, she stared at her reflection in the mirror and tried to calm herself down. She could've easily taken a cold shower, but it felt like such a waste when she had access to such a big, luxurious bathtub and practically unlimited hot water. And really, she wasn't sure how it'd look if Viggo could hear a shower running on John's end. So instead she just plucked up one of the hotel supplied brushes and toothpaste, scrubbed so hard she almost made her gums bleed. She wasn't exactly going to let herself have bad breath now, was she? She also took the opportunity to clean her face, and took an uneasy look at the little gash under the bandage. It wasn't the nastiest wound she'd ever seen, but it certainly wasn't beautiful with it starting to scab over. She very carefully cleaned it and found a first-aid kit neatly tucked away at the back of the cupboard under the sink. Had to go looking for it, but she seemed to have been right in assuming there would be one. It felt like a given, if this place really was as important as John made it seem to people in his… Industry. 

Bandaged and freshened up, it felt like a shame to get back into the same clothes as yesterday. Especially her underwear, which was both bland and utterly boring - but it wasn't like John had wanted to see it anyway. It was fine, she tried to tell herself. Just because of the situation they'd found themselves in, didn't mean John  _ wanted _ to pick up where they left off. Sure, they'd slept in the same bed last night, and he'd been so gentle and kind to her. But he hadn't made his motivations abundantly clear, and she'd wait until he did before she got her hopes up entirely. 

By the time she was dressed and returned to the bedroom, tugging her cardigan around her middle, John's phone call had ended. He looked up at her, and appeared a little surprised - as if he had expected her to just walk around in just the hotel robe all day. 

"Well?" she asked, crossing the room to join him standing near the window. "What did he say?" 

"He wants to meet with me in person." John said with a sigh, and immediately, the hairs on the back of her neck prickled in alarm. 

"That reeks of a trap." 

He smiled only slightly. "You're right. But I'm curious to hear what he has to say." 

"And he couldn't just say it over the phone?" 

"Apparently not." 

She twisted her hands together in front of her, and huffed. "I don't know, John," she murmured, "If he hurt you, I-" 

"He can't, Helen." 

"Your confidence in your own abilities don't make me feel better at the prospect of you turning up to thirty guys jumping you." 

"Only thirty?" 

"John! I'm serious." she muttered, and sighed. "Really, I don't feel okay about this. I don't trust it one bit." 

"Neither do I." John admitted, and she looked up at him. He was frowning again, but not in confusion - a sort of pensive look on his face as he regarded her. "But I have to make sure Viggo doesn't put a contract on you. If I have to meet him in person to do that, then I will." 

She should've been concerned by the prospect of a "contract." But damn him, she still felt more worried about  _ him.  _ Sick to the stomach, in fact, and she was beginning to regret breakfast. This was John's life, though; he walked into danger every day, and he was fine. Would she feel like this every time he left her in this hotel room? 

"Viggo Tarasov won't be the end of me, Helen." John promised. 

"But you'll be careful, won't you? Are you wearing that bulletproof vest underneath this?" she murmured, and reached out to prod at his chest. Sure enough, it felt far firmer than skin and muscle had any right to be - not that she'd  _ know  _ what his muscle felt like. Not yet. 

"I'll be more careful than I usually am." he said, "No risks. As soon as I smell a trap, I'll leave. If it comes to it, I'll fight, but I'll take no risks." 

She nodded with a slight sigh of unease. She realised she hadn't moved her hand away, but only because he reached up to hold it against his chest. 

He squeezed it. "By tonight, you'll be a free woman, Helen. Viggo won't threaten you again - even if I have to kill him." 

"I'll stay trapped in this hotel room forever so long as your death isn't on my hands, John Wick." 

His lips twitched into a smile, like he was trying to fight it back. "Really, Helen, you underestimate what I can do." 

"I'm not underestimating," she said, unable to fight off her own smile. "It's called worrying." 

"And you don't have to. You have my word I'll be back in a few hours." 

"Unharmed?" 

John rose a brow. "Now that's asking for too much." then, his smile fell, and he nodded. "I'll try." 

She stuck her heels in for a while longer, only for him to win her over with those eyes. Those lovely dark eyes that bored right into her soul and made her feel bad for feeling bad about this whole load of bad. "Fine!" she huffed, "Just be careful, John."

He smiled at her, and released her hand. She perched on the bed and watched him; from the corner of the table he retrieved a thicker belt than he already had on, but this went  _ over.  _ She'd seen something like it before, albeit a little less sleek and slim. Her dad had one, though John's holsters were obviously designed to be far more subtle, enough to blend in under a suit jacket. How hadn't she noticed the collection of new guns laying out beside the one he'd carried last night? As he found places for each of them to go, she started to feel a little less uneasy seeing how armed he was. But then she realised Viggo would already know how prepared a man like John would be, and how well-armed any trap could be. All of a sudden, she felt her gut churning again, but John didn't seem to notice how tense she was as he fetched his blazer from the wardrobe. 

"I'll be back in a few hours." he said as he went towards the door, buttoning up his jacket as he went. "Don't panic if I'm not back by sundown. Might just happen that I fall down a rabbit hole." 

"You're expecting that to happen?" 

"Not expecting it. Just warning you because it  _ could."  _ John collected the key from the side table by the door, and pressed it into her hand. "Remember what I said, Helen. Please don't leave this room." 

She reached out to grasp his hand before he could pull away. "I won't as long as you come back to me in one piece." she promised. She still felt all sorts of panicked, and she wasn't sure how to begin to express it. It wasn't a very effective way to settle her nerves, but at the very least it made her feel a little easier; she pressed up on her toes to kiss his cheek, and squeezed his hand one last time before she let him go. 

"There'll be more waiting for you when you get back." she offered. The only bait she had to dangle tantalisingly in front of him was her in yesterday's clothes, covered in paint. But John still smiled, and he looked very tempted. 

He opened the door and disappeared down the hallway without a word. Sighing, Helen shut it over and turned the key in the lock, feeling a surge of that unwelcome - and as John believed, unnecessary - fear wash over her. What could she even do in here for a few hours? Sure, she had her bag, but… 

Her sketchbook! _Oh,_ _please tell me I didn't leave it behind!_ Amongst everything, it really wasn't a priority, but the joy she felt when she found it tossed haphazardly in her bag made her feel dizzy like she'd stepped off a roller-coaster of feelings. She had whiplash from how fast her fear had turned into happiness, and now to a dull sort of nothing. She didn't really have any desire to draw, nor did she feel struck by inspiration trapped in this hotel room. It certainly wasn't the worst she'd ever stayed in; it bordered on pure luxury, actually. But still, she wasn't sure opening the curtains for a view of the city was a good idea, and she didn't exactly have her phone to look at her crappy photographs of random snapshots of things she'd seen. 

So for a little while, she just found herself pacing. She tidied up the room a little bit seeing as room service definitely would be refused at the door; she tidied up the remains of her breakfast and set the tray down on the far edge of the table, giving her plenty of space to set out her supplies and sketchbook. Then, she dusted the bed free of any crumbs and made it. Fluffing up the pillows, she cursed herself for the sorry sight she must've been last night. If John really was insistent on ensuring she was "free" - whatever that meant - by tonight, did that mean this was… It? That he still stood by his previous stance, that he thought it best they didn't see each other again? If so, maybe last night she really should've tried a bit harder. But it was easier, in retrospect, to downplay the messy state her head must've been in last night. She just remembered feeling dizzy and really disoriented, and there were some gaps in parts of her memory. 

She'd always thought she'd be one of those people that walked away completely fine from an attack in the subway. In her entire life she'd somehow avoided it, but always expected she'd face one. She'd been arrogant enough to think she'd be nonplussed about it, like it was no big deal. 

Then again, she'd always pictured a casual, every day mugging. Not men sent to kill her - and watching the man she'd been on a date with only a few days before shoot them dead. 

John really was something else. She'd considered his secret job a lot, and wondered a million times what he could've done; hitman had crossed her mind  _ once  _ and she'd laughed at it. John was too gentle, too kind. And now she was supposed to just nod and believe him when he told her he was more than capable? 

She believed him, of course she did. He had nothing to gain out of lying, and this would be a lot of effort to go to for an elaborate prank. 

Worst of all? She wasn't sure it changed how she felt about him. 

Could she live with that, though? Knowing he killed people? Could she live with herself knowing the man she wanted had made his fortune being a professional killer? Really, it was the last thing she'd expected; that the man she'd come to know, the same man who helped her out of his car and pushed in her chair was the same man who had the blood of four-hundred and thirty-six recorded people on his hands? 

Helen sighed and settled at the table. Idly, she flipped through her sketchbook; this one was her latest, a few months old. At home she had an entire storage crate stacked high with them. The first dozen or so pages were dedicated to random doodles, still-life sketches of flowers - daisies were most common, of course, that was something of an obsession - or views from outside her window. All done in graphite, though, so there were only so many different ways she could draw the same view at differing times of day before getting bored. They'd proven alright studies at values, though; a decent practise at capturing light and dark while not leaning on the crutch of thick painted layers. 

Then, further along, that was where she'd begun to… Deviate. It was rare that she was quick enough to grab for her sketchbook when her own imagination struck, so random ideas were always doodled on throwaway scraps of paper in a pile on her desk. They never saw the light of day to be put towards final pieces. The first time she'd had this idea, she had doodled it on paper and it had joined the pile - but then she couldn't get the idea out of her head, so she turned to her sketchbook. She filled a page with ominous-looking figures whose origin she wasn't sure of. At first she blamed it on the conversation of Mr. Hyde with John, looking up photographs of old art that had been used as advertisements or book covers. But by the third page of tossing ideas down on paper, Mr. Hyde had eventually become Mr. Wick. Not painfully obviously, so even she hadn't noticed it at first. Just quick and sketchy silhouettes of mysterious men; men that evolved to have the same broad shoulders and cut waist, ones who wore double-breasted suit jackets with peak lapels. But then she must've remembered that that was an evening suit, not one for work, so eventually the sketches gave up on having one so detailed. 

The one thing she had never touched was his face. Afraid, maybe, that by giving the ghost on the page one that it would prove that she was drawing John, and without meaning to. That it would be admitting she spent far more time thinking about the side of him that he was hiding, and so far she'd only met Jekyll. 

But now she knew, and she felt  _ silly  _ almost. She didn't feel like John had suddenly switched, or that all of a sudden he had an evil and twisted dark side that was the Hyde he'd hidden away. He was just… John. Like he had said to her, the real world was never so black and white; he was somewhere in that spectrum, residing in the grey, but as of right now she wasn't sure where. Whether he was more bad than good. 

And she decided she didn't care. It wasn't up to her to judge him, like she'd said what felt like a dozen times. If he believed in any sort of god, then that was the only time he  _ should  _ face it. But he definitely wouldn't receive it from her.

Idly, she started scribbling. She felt like she had something to make up for; some sort of mistake she had to correct for the assumptions she made about him. But she didn't, not really - these were just random sketches, nothing more. She'd never made any such assumptions or decisions regarding John, so she wasn't really sure where to begin. 

After a useless ten minutes of warming up her wrist with hundreds of varying circles, she decided thinking was too hard. She didn't feel any need to continue on with the tangent of doodles from the past pages, but she wasn't struck with any fresh ideas. So in the end she decided to do a rough study of one of the pretty little jugs that had come on the breakfast tray. A little silver pitcher, covered in ornate floral details. 

When she'd drawn it enough times to hate herself  _ and  _ the pitcher enough to throw it through the window, she huffed. Slamming the sketchbook shut, she got up to stretch her legs and paced back and forth a little. How had she only wasted an hour? Jesus, she was going to go insane waiting if she'd already ran out of things to do. 

She sighed, and let her gaze wander around the room in search of something new to draw. Something interesting, preferably, but nothing so challenging like that damn pitcher. And while she was looking, she was struck with an idea - but not of what to draw. 

Hesitantly, she approached the phone. John had said not to leave the room, but… Would it really be so terrible when the person she wanted to see was so allegedly trustworthy? 

An uncomfortable sense of awkwardness struck her as she reached for the phone. She'd never stayed in a place so fancy, she felt as if she didn't have nearly enough etiquette to speak to any of the polite staff here. But John had said she could call the front desk - what was the man's name he'd given? Something beginning with C. 

She spent so long trying to remember that she almost gave up on the idea entirely. But then it struck her and she hurried to reach the phone before she could change her mind. 

_ "This is front desk, how may we help you?"  _ came a woman's voice through the receiver when Helen pressed the little one button. 

"Hi, this is room four-thirteen, could I speak to Charon please?" she said quickly, and was so relieved that she managed to get the sentence she'd rehearsed out without stumbling. 

_ "Of course, Miss, please hold."  _

She waited just a short minute, listening to a soft, jovial tune. More than once she contemplated just putting the phone down and dropping it altogether. But would that look strange? Her just calling and all of a sudden unable to answer when she was called back? Somehow she assumed  _ that  _ would make it to John, and she didn't need him worrying even further. 

Within the next minute, Charon answered. His voice was the same low, yet gentle hum she remembered only vaguely last night in the lobby. In fact, she wasn't even sure if she remembered what he looked like; not only had she kept her head down, but she felt like the drive here and everything until after the Doctor had left was a blur. 

_ "Good afternoon, Miss. Mister Wick has left explicit instructions with me regarding what we may discuss,"  _ he said, and Helen somehow withheld her sigh. Of  _ course  _ he'd gone to the extra effort to wind her up in yet another layer of bubble-wrap like a porcelain doll.  _ "With that in mind, how may I help you?"  _

Scratching at her head, she decided to go for it anyhow. "Do any of these instructions forbid me from seeing the Manager?" 

Charon hesitated, perhaps in surprise.  _ "No, they do not. Is there a particular reason why you would request a meeting? I can forward any complaints."  _

"No, no complaints. I'd just like to speak with him, if he isn't busy." 

_ "Allow me to check. One moment."  _

She was put on hold again, but it wasn’t a terribly long wait this time. Charon returned with,  _ “The Manager is free to see you. If you take the elevator up to the eighth floor, you will find his office. Someone there will show you to the terrace where he will meet with you.” _

“Thank you.”

Setting the phone back on its hook, Helen let out a little breath. She eyed the door nervously, and then the key rested on the table beside it; John had asked  _ nothing _ of her but that she stay in this room. But he trusted the Manager - that much was obvious from going to seek his advice last night. The only danger that would be posed to her would be the journey to him, but she knew if anyone tried to touch her here, they were idiots. If that so-called law John had insisted really was real, then she’d be perfectly fine. 

With a little sigh, she checked her reflection. She would stand out dressed as she was, but she had no choice. Grabbing the key, she unlocked the door and left the room before she could change her mind. 

The elevator was empty, thank God, as she rode it up to the eighth floor as instructed. She stepped out into a little lobby, all marble in black and white; ornate walls with dark wooden paneling topped with pristine white paint. She felt all kinds of out-of-place as she approached the desk in the corner, manned by a young man with a serious sort of look on him that didn’t fit at all to his baby-face. 

“You called from room four-thirteen?” he asked, and Helen nodded. “Follow me, please.”

He got to his feet and left the desk. She felt a bizarre wave of deja vu as she followed him through a pair of double doors held open by two men in suits - who she now knew better to assume as bodyguards than simple employees or friends. Unlike the last time she’d been walked into a pristine office like this, at Viggo Tarasov’s, and she’d tried her hardest to believe it was perfectly fine and normal. 

The young man - who she presumed to be the Manager’s secretary, maybe? Receptionist at the very least - led her through a beautifully high-class office with a gorgeous view of the city behind a desk. But it was empty, so they continued on through a pair of double glass doors off to the right, which he politely held open for her. The air held a chill, but what else could she have expected in November? It was deceptively bright and sunny, and when they stepped out of the shadow of the building, it hit her like a relieving wash of warmth.

He gave her a curt nod before leaving her on the terrace to face the Manager alone. Taking a breath, she walked the rest of the way to where he was sitting at a pretty wrought-iron table, in a fancy black felt coat and sipping a cup of tea. She gave him a one over as she came upon the table; an older man, with wrinkles in his brow and around his mouth that fell into jowls. His hair, more of a silver than a powder grey, sat upon his head in thick waves. And whilst he was dressed to the nines, he forwent the tie and wore his collar loose around his neck; somehow the image of professionalism and perfect comfort. Showcasing just how much power he could so relaxedly hold in the palm of his hand here. 

“Miss Helen Moore, I presume.” he said when she stopped. He hadn’t even looked up at her yet - was still examining the view of the city over the staggered brick wall around the edge of the terrace. When finally he looked at her, she felt like she’d gathered the courage to stand there perfectly still under his steely grey gaze. 

“I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage,” she admitted, “I haven’t had the chance to do any homework on you just yet with everything going on.”

It was maybe a little bold, but the Manager just smiled at her. Pleasantly so, surprised, as if he was expecting some sort of quiet, meek response. She supposed the way she’d shuffled on her approach and stood there shy and nervous wasn’t doing her any favours on first impressions - or assumptions. 

“You may call me Winston.” he introduced, and gestured to the empty chair opposite him. “Please, have a seat.”

“Thank you.” 

“Tea?”

“Please.”

He sat up to pour from the pretty porcelain teapot into a second cup, and offered it to her along with milk and sugar. When she’d taken a little sip, and enjoyed the fresh air for a moment, she turned back to him looking at her expectantly.

“Well, Miss Moore,” he began, relaxing in his chair, “You came to me for something in particular. How may I serve?”

Helen set down the teacup, and hesitated for just a moment. John had said it himself - it was dangerous for her to roam around his world knowing as little as she did. And as much as he seemed to want to delay sharing it with her, she felt as if they didn’t have the precious luxury of forever for him to tell her only bits as he so pleased. 

Not to mention, she had to admit she really was curious. She’d just stumbled upon a whole world just existing under hers that she’d been oblivious enough to think only existed in movies and crime shows. Being caught up in the thick of it was only yet another pressing reason to find out more. 

“I just have a few questions.”

▂▃▅▇█▒▒█▇▅▃▂

The last thing John expected when he returned to the particularly quiet lobby of Continental that evening to be called over to the desk by Charon.

“Welcome back, Mister Wick.” he greeted, and John rose a brow. His whole damn body ached - he didn’t want to be on his feet for any longer than he had to. Charon seemed to notice; it would be difficult not to notice the blood on him for anyone with eyes. “Do not be alarmed when you return to your room - Miss Moore is currently with the Manager.”

John stiffened. “What? Why?” 

“She requested to see him some time this afternoon. They are in his office.”

He gave a curt nod of thanks, and hurried to the elevator. Or, at least, he would if his limp wasn’t troubling him so much. Christ, of all the people Viggo could’ve sent, it had to be  _ them _ . The only goddamn people who’d know to hit him where it hurts. 

What was Helen doing? He’d given her only  _ one _ instruction - not even that, a  _ request _ . He’d asked her not to leave the room for her own safety. He hadn’t asked her to do anything else, it wasn’t even an order. He’d trusted her with the key and just hoped she’d, this time, she’d listen to his judgement. It was  _ his _ world, and she knew he knew it better than anyone - at least, definitely far more than her. 

But no - Helen Moore’s stubbornness prevailed once again.

He was let into the office without an announcement, this time. And when he passed the threshold, he saw Winston comfortable in his desk chair as ever - with Helen sitting relaxed in the same armchair he’d sunk into last night. 

“Jonathan,” greeted Winston first, as the first to lay eyes on him. The moment he did, however, Helen’s head whipped around, and her eyes went wide at the state of him; battered and tired, but not dead. That was the most important thing. 

“What are you doing?” he asked, and the Manager rose a brow.

“What am  _ I _ doing? My, I think you’ve gotten yourself a little confused, Jonathan.” he chuckled, and set his glass down on the desk’s surface. “I believe the question is better posed as such: what are  _ you _ doing? You bring a woman into our fold and tell her nothing? I suppose poor Miss Moore is not even aware there is a contract on her head.”

John narrowed his eyes. Was this a test? “There isn’t.” 

“I would beg to differ.” 

He hesitated, and glanced in Helen’s direction. She seemed more concerned with the state of him than any contract - he winced through the pain in his arm to pull his phone out from the inside pocket of his blazer. Thankfully it was left intact, unlike some of the bones in his body. Every muscle in his body felt tense as he checked over the newest listings. Scrolled a little under a growing list of petty hits and contracts made under the simple desire for one thing: death.

There she was.  _ Fuck _ . Whoever had listed it on Viggo’s behalf had pulled from the same information he had; her photograph of ID, name, age, physical description, last known location. Christ, it was listed as the Continental New York - they already  _ knew _ .

But that wasn’t the only thing. Sandwiched between the listings of Helen Moore and Irina Volkava was none other than John Wick, worth a bounty higher than both of theirs combined. Triple it, in fact; a whopping three million was the value of his head according to Viggo. At least he didn’t need to feel insulted by any sort of underestimation. 

Somehow he managed to keep his composure as he tucked his phone away. He offered a hand out to Helen, and she took it to get up from the chair, but he was sure he looked like he needed help more. So much so that she couldn’t stop frowning at him in concern. 

“Thank you for the help,” she said, turning back to address Winston, “It was really… Enlightening.”

“You’re welcome. It was my pleasure to serve.” he said with one of those charming, inviting smiles. John wasn’t sure he liked it when it was addressed to Helen. “Lovely meeting you, Miss Moore.”

“And you, Winston.”

The elevator ride down was… Tense. So horridly tense that John felt like it physically hurt - or maybe that was just the ache in his joints and perhaps some internal bleeding. Helen stood beside him with her arms folded across her chest, and the cold, hard silence he was receiving worried him more than any injuries he might’ve gotten tonight. 

“Helen-”

“Don’t.” she said quickly, and John huffed. 

“You have no right to be angry with me.” he said, and she spun towards him with an indignant look. “You broke  _ your _ promise as well.”

“Somehow I think turning up covered in blood when you promised to be careful is just a  _ smidge _ worse than me leaving my room to go and learn more about the shit you won’t tell me.”

“You think I wasn’t going to tell you?”

“I know you don’t want to. Same as how you didn’t want to tell me about your job.”

John sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “I would’ve happily told you anything you wanted to know - I was just a little bit busy getting my ass handed to me.”

The elevator doors pinged open and Helen walked out in a huff. John followed, only to freeze up a little when he noticed someone else down the hall - he didn’t recognise them, but he  _ knew _ he recognised him. But Helen kept walking until she reached their door, and unlocked it. Waited for him at the door with a hand on her hip, and he wasn’t sure if she was pointedly ignoring the other person in the hallway, or so oblivious to it that she didn’t care if the stranger could’ve been a threat. 

“And  _ you _ promised  _ not _ to get your ass handed to you, but look where we are.” she continued when he reluctantly passed by her into the room. And unfortunately, she didn’t wait until she’d closed and locked the door. Tossing the key aside, she charged past him into the bedroom, folding her arms angrily across her chest as he hobbled after, sinking slowly onto the end of the bed. “You told me no one could get the better of you,” she insisted, and he wasn’t sure he remembered saying  _ that _ exactly. “So how is it that you’ve come back like this, John?”

“Viggo had people waiting I wasn’t expecting.” he said, and slowly began to ease his jacket off. With a sigh, Helen let her arms fall to her sides before coming over to help; slipping it out off one arm first and then the other, starting a pile on the floor of bloodied clothes. 

“But you said you were expecting it to be a trap.”

“I was.” 

Helen sighed, exasperated, as she slipped his tie loose. “Then how, John?” 

“Viggo sent my brothers.”

She stopped short, and he hesitantly lifted his chin to look at her. For a moment she just frowned, and then said, slowly, “I thought you said you have no siblings.”

“They’re not…. Really my siblings.” he said with a sigh, “Boys I was raised with in the orphanage. We trained together - I know their tells as well as they know all of mine. It’s the  _ only _ reason they were able to do this.”

He counted the seconds she took to think it over. A minute of silence was broken when she, all of a sudden, huffed with a growl of anger. 

“What the fuck?” she snapped, but not at him. “They’re your fucking brothers and they tried to kill you?”

She tossed away his tie over her shoulder, and he probably would’ve enjoyed it had his entire body not ached. He shook his head as she began undoing the buttons of his shirt.

“Not kill me,” he corrected, “They can’t kill me.”

Helen quirked a brow, like a look of amused disbelief - as if she thought he was simply showcasing arrogance again. But no; it seemed to click with her fast, and she asked, “The same sort of law like Continental?”

“Not quite as binding.” he admitted. When Helen gently pried away his shirt, letting out a little sigh at the blood staining it in a few patches, John reached for his watch - its face was cracked, but it was still holding on. Wasn’t ticking anymore though, which made it easier to force himself to his feet, place it on the ground, and stomp hard on it with his heel. 

“John, what are you-”

He sank back down again, but even as he bent to reach for the pieces, Helen brushed him off. She kneeled and did it herself, and frowned when she collected the tiny folded sheet of paper he’d been looking for. 

“Can I borrow a pen?” he asked, and she nodded - willing albeit still confused. From the table behind her, she offered him a pen from her collection of supplies spread out, and he unfolded the paper on his knee to make another pair of tiny tally marks to the list of fifteen others. 

“What’s that?” she asked, as he folded it once more. He wasn’t sure what to do with it now that his watch was gone; it had been a long time since he’d even needed to use it, considering how long it had been since he had seen his brothers. He had gotten so used to just hiding it in the inner workings of his watch that now he didn’t know where to put it. So for the moment, he reached over her shoulder, and set it beside Helen’s sketchbook. 

“My brothers and I made something of a pact,” he said. She returned to her self-assigned task of helping him, and found the straps to undo the kevlar vest still around his chest. “We’ll never be the direct cause of each other’s inevitable death. Saving the lives of another earns you a favour - a mark on that paper. So I now owe both of them.”

“But you said they did this to you. How is this  _ saving _ you?”

“Saving is the same as sparing.”

Helen looked like she had to fight down the urge to dispute it. Instead, she focused her energies on peeling him out of his t-shirt, and sighing when she saw the dried blood on his chest, and the score of bruises across his skin. He was already getting tired of feeling like he was… In trouble? It had definitely been a while since he’d felt  _ that _ . But Helen had a way about that sigh that twisted up his gut and made him feel like a rebellious child all over again. 

“I’m sorry.” he said, and she paused. Frowned at him for a moment, before leaving him - when she came back, she’d seemingly already made the discovery of the first-aid kit in the bathroom. He was taken a little aback when she boldly planted her hands on his knees, parted them, and came to stand between them; took his chin in her hand to gently clean at the fresh cuts on his face; one on his brow, another on his nose. 

“What for?” she asked, and he couldn’t help his own frown - she tapped at the skin between his eyebrows until it eased away so she could carry on. She knew what he was sorry for; she knew why she was mad. So why was she asking…?

“For coming back hurt.”

“No, John. That’s not what you need to be sorry for.”

She moved on from his face to the cut on his shoulder, taking care to clean it while he considered just what exactly she wanted him to say. He had a million different things he could be sorry for, and a million different ways to say each of them. But Helen expected something specific, and if he had to, he’d go through all of them until she was happy.

“I’m sorry for being cocky and promising something I shouldn’t have.” he said, and her frown lessened a little - he was on the right track. “And I’m sorry for underestimating how dangerous it could’ve been. And for letting my brothers take me by surprise.  _ And _ getting hurt, and now you have to help me.”

Helen’s lips twitched into a reluctant smile. “I don’t  _ have _ to help you, John. I want to.” 

"Then thank you." 

She met his gaze for a second, and it was warm; just like the smile she wore with ease now. "You know," she said, "Most people I care about call me Hels. You don't have to call me Helen all the time." 

His heart leapt at the implication. "I'm afraid I don't have any nicknames." 

"Oh, but you do." she teased, "Winston told me all about the Baba Yaga, John. The Reaper, the Devil, Lo Spettro, Death himself."

And all of a sudden his heart felt like it was sinking. He wasn't sure he was exactly  _ glad  _ about her newfound knowledge. But Helen was still smiling at him. 

"What else did Winston tell you?" he asked. He couldn't help but feel vaguely nervous. 

"He just essentially gave me a crash course on the Underworld which is what I wanted." she said with a shrug, "Told me about the High Table, Continental, the rules. How the contracts work, who can do what and where, the sorts of people you work with - and by association I might meet." 

"Did he…" John sighed. He didn't  _ want  _ to ask but he had to. "Did he mention anyone called Irina?" 

"Once or twice." she said vaguely. But the conflicted look in her gaze told him all he needed to know. 

"I told you about her; I just never gave you her name. It's… Complicated." 

"I know, John." she assured, but he wasn't sure he enjoyed what came next. "Winston explained it, sort of. I understand that you were trained together. That you were promised to her. But why did you run away if you were just going to end up dating her for five years later down the line?" 

John cast his eyes aside. She let her hands fall back to her sides, and watched him as he sighed. "I thought I was ready." he said simply, "I didn't want to marry her because I was ordered to. I thought that once I left my clan, that was the end of it - but we met again years later and I couldn't help it.  _ I  _ thought we were happy, despite everything - evidently she disagreed. She's been gone eight years, Hels. I never expected her to come back."

"You said you didn't care what she wanted," Helen murmured, "You said it didn't matter. Now that she's back, that… Hasn't changed, right?" 

"It hasn't. She's only come back to New York to ruin me, and I won't let it happen. I'm only telling you because I want you to understand - because it's only a matter of time until she inserts herself into this situation." 

Helen nodded, and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "I've done all I think I can," she admitted, "I don't know how to help anymore, do you want the Doctor to come up?" 

"Might be wise for my leg." he admitted, and wasn't sure he could get up again to reach the phone. Helen pressed a hand on his shoulder and encouraged him to stay - the ease with which she called reception and requested the Doctor pay a visit both surprised him and made an unreasonable amount of pride swell in his chest. When she returned, she hesitated behind him, and it only struck him  _ then  _ that she didn't know about the tattoos on his back. 

But she didn't say anything. She just tidied away the first-aid kit and moved the pile of his clothes to the corner of the room out of the way. He knew her mind was working at a million miles an hour, probably processing all of the new information she'd learned while he was gone. Really, he couldn't be mad at her for breaking her promise; she'd used her initiative then her time effectively. She'd made use of the resources available to her to further understand her situation. Whilst he would've rather explained it himself, and answered any of her questions, this was a decent compromise. 

Winston was a reliable source of information, too. And a good mentor in the political space of the Underworld - he knew that from experience. So really, he had no reason to be angry. Just proud that she'd made the most of it. 

Christ, he was tired. And after tonight, it felt like he'd only been handed more problems in an attempt to fix the one he'd caused - Viggo was a fucking idiot. He'd put a contract on not only  _ Irina Volkava,  _ a woman who would not go down easy, but Helen Moore as well. John was fairly sure he'd already made it clear what he was willing to do in Helen's defence; so Viggo decided his next best bet was to open a contract on him too? 

But Helen, the boundless optimist, just squeezed his hand and smiled. "We'll fix this, John," she promised, and he couldn't even suggest she didn't understand the situation anymore because she  _ did. _ She was just stronger than he was. 

He could only hope she could cling into that hope. 

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed! I'll be writing this fic in between writing my [Cyberpunk fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28552482/chapters/69969669) as well as my studies for uni, so I apologise preemptively if there are long breaks between chapters!
> 
> I'm [bubble-bones](https://bubble-bones.tumblr.com/) on tumblr!


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